


Degrees of Resurrection

by Gintrinsic



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, An AU of an AU (again lol), Inspired by JoJo’s Linked Universe, Linked Universe (Legend of Zelda), Pre-Breath of the Wild, Selectively Mute Link (Legend of Zelda), The Yiga Clan - Freeform, Violence, Yiga Link
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:20:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26454049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gintrinsic/pseuds/Gintrinsic
Summary: Raised by the Yiga, the Hero of Courage becomes an extension of Calamity Ganon, shaped by Malice and nefarious plots.But destiny has expectations. If the Goddess can’t have her chosen Hero, she’ll summon eight others.
Comments: 130
Kudos: 272
Collections: RaeLynn's Epic Rec List





	1. Prologue: Bereft

**Author's Note:**

> Please note that this story contains semi-graphic violence, emotional manipulation/abuse, and a short scene in the prologue in which an infant is handled cruelly.
> 
> The other LU characters will not appear until chapter ~~3~~ 4 unless this story gets out of control (no promises). The remaining chapters are outlined but not completed.

In the end, it is the work of four minutes to kill one unremarkable soldier and two middle-aged farmers. Their bodies, scored by the artful slices of a Windcleaver, litter the front steps of a plain, old house on the edge of a forgettable country town. Thick pools of blood seep into the porous stone, and stray drops glitter prettily in the torchlight like a wealth of fine rubies. Kohga can’t help but think it is distastefully ill-fitting.

Inside, a young woman drags herself across the kitchen floor. The precise gashes across her hamstrings have left her clumsy. She reaches for a paring knife on the counter, and her pained grunts do nothing to diminish the fire-bright determination in her blue eyes. A baby is held protectively against her chest, swaddled in a thick green blanket.

“Shall I finish her off, Master Kohga?” a Blademaster asks, observing the woman as she struggles. Their voice is low and dispassionate, and their physical features are well-hidden behind the impersonal gleam of their Yiga mask; they are an inspiring example of the fearsome nature of unanimity, of pure, undistracted _loyalty_ , and right now they are Kohga’s favorite Blademaster.

At the other end of the kitchen, the woman turns the knife toward them, her lips peeling back in a snarl. She looks like a cornered animal, Kohga reflects amusedly. One that knows it is prey. She very pointedly does not glance toward the front door.

“Hmm,” he sighs dramatically, tapping the cheek of his mask. “She’s doubtlessly the mother. I think her life would make a most magnificent offering to Lord Calamity, don’t you?”

The Blademaster nods and snaps his fingers, wordlessly directing two Footsoldiers to seize the woman. They evade her unpracticed swipes with ease, waiting for an opening. Then, with crude, dispassionate efficiency, one of the Footsoldiers sends a swift kick to her lacerated thigh. She pitches forward with a scream, unbalanced, and the other Footsoldier crushes her hand underfoot, effectively trapping the knife. As her baby is torn from her one-armed grasp, the woman’s shouts turn vicious, ripping from her throat with all the furiousness of desperation.

Kohga supposes her efforts are admirable even if they are also rather pointless. It is only as she is dragged through the front door and past the cooling bodies of her loved ones that her voice finally breaks; the muffled, wet sounds of her crying are like a balm after so much unnecessary clamor.

Kohga can’t help but rub his palms together excitedly as one of the Footsoldiers approaches with the baby. “Give it here, give it here!” He takes his prize in both hands, holding it out in front of him and letting its blanket fall to the floor. Exposed to the cool air, the baby kicks its legs and gurgles unhappily. It’s a chubby thing, and its returning stare is curious. He hopes it’s healthy.

The Blademaster stares at the baby’s plain little fists. “You’re sure this is the one, Master?”

Kohga refrains from snapping, but it is a near thing. He lets his anger roil beneath his skin, lets it manifest in the calm, quiet tenseness of his voice. “You doubt me?”

“N-no, Master. It is simply… unassuming.”

Kohga nods, allowing this. He is, of course, forgiving at heart. “My devoutness was rewarded with clarity. Lord Ganondorf spoke to me through my dreams.” He pauses, allowing the impressiveness of the admission to sink in. “He has guided me to this very moment, to this incredible catalyst of opportunity. The Yiga Clan will honor his choice.”

Appropriately subdued, the Blademaster bows lowly. “Of course, Master Kohga. Thank you for patiently enlightening me.”

One of the Footsoldiers reenters the house. “The woman has been restrained, Master. The rest of the townsfolk are now aware of our presence, however; they’re beginning to rally, and they’ve sent word to the city guard.”

Kohga sighs at the mild inconvenience, though he supposes it can’t be helped; the soldier had made quite a ruckus as he died, even while suffocating on his own fluids. Kohga tuts under his breath as he heads outside, hopping lightly over the messy steps. The baby whines at the jarring movement.

“Throw the bodies inside,” the Blademaster tells a subordinate. “There’s a full moon in two days. We’ll exsanguinate the mother in honor of the legendary Blood Moon. Make sure she stays hydrated until then.”

As the lesser members go about preparing for their departure, Kohga hardly listens, enamored with his small, ugly, beautiful new spoil. He ignores the growing torchlight in the distance, focusing on the baby’s expression as he experimentally tightens his grip; it fusses quietly, so he squeezes tighter, then tighter, smiling in delight when it begins to cry in earnest. And Kohga feels merciful as he relaxes his hold, inordinately pleased with the strength of the baby’s cries. He knows they are a reflection of his success.

“Lord Ganondorf has such plans for you, little one,” he whispers. “Your bravery will lead the Yiga into a glorious new age. By your hand, this world will know Calamity.”

The farmhouse is quickly set on fire; it glows like a ghostly beacon in the night, a pulse in the surrounding stillness. 

Kohga takes the Hero of Courage home to the desert.


	2. A Question of Power

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fsdfhsdhsdhdh thanks so much to everyone who left kudos and comments on the prologue! <3 <3 <3

They call him Karusa. A child of the valley, born from its scalding, shifting sands. A sun-bright force of nature at home among the sheer cliffs and rolling dunes. Like one of the desert’s plateaus, time has weathered him into something resembling immovability. He relies on this, draws upon stoicism the same way he has been taught to pull back on a bowstring; steadily, with hardly a breath. 

It is his only defense in situations like these.

“You five, leave,” Master Kohga orders with a wave, and Karusa’s exhausted sparring partners quickly bow and flee.

Karusa holds himself still, shoulders back and chin level. He takes deep, measured breaths through his nose, barely skirting lightheadedness as his lungs burn for more. His training garb consists only of red tights and slim boots; his failures, both old and new, are otherwise laid out upon his skin for all to see.

(“Scars are good,” Master Kohga told him years ago, as Karusa struggled not to tremble from the acidic burn of a Lizalfos bite. “They’re a reminder of disgrace, so you won’t repeat the same mistake twice.”

But Karusa no longer has the leniency of childhood to shelter him.)

“He’s injured,” Master Kohga remarks, circling the training grounds slowly. His steps are like the ticking of a clock, and his saunter is as well-practiced as his bare sneer.

Karusa doesn’t know why Master Kohga chooses to expose his face in the Hideout sometimes, whether the driving force is vanity or intimidation or some other petty little thing. Even in the privacy of his own room, Karusa prefers to stay hidden. There is dark magic imbued within every Yiga mask, a binding agent that prevents accidental slippage during battle. It prickles irregularly, a fluttering pain that never truly abates, like a splinter under too-warm skin. 

Besides the few instances in which he had to be fitted for a new mask, Karusa cannot recall a time without that comforting sting. He’s not sure he’d ever want to view the world without it.

The weapons master bows shortly. Their deference does nothing to hide the way they tighten their hold on the training whip, and Karusa’s skin crawls with instinctual dread. “He bested two Blademasters and three Footmen, Master Kohga. A few cuts and bruises are… not unexpected.”

Master Kohga hums, dragging out the sound. When he finally stops walking, he is standing directly behind Karusa. The silence that follows is heavy and threatening. Karusa hates the way he can feel sweat drip down the small of his back, hates that his body can show such blatant weakness.

“I suppose I was expecting more,” Master Kohga says at last. He resumes his circling, like a vulture enjoying the anticipation of its meal. Every step brings him a little closer.

“I would venture to call his skills admirable,” the weapons master answers.

Master Kohga jauntily skips a few steps, then pivots on his toes until he’s facing Karusa head on. He leans forward, humming under his breath, and lightly traces a finger across an ugly gash below Karusa’s collarbone. _Demon Carver_ , Karusa’s mind supplies, trying not to focus on the touch _. Serrated spikes. Meant to rip_.

Master Kogha clicks his tongue. His gloves look brand new. “Imperfection shows lack of commitment.”

“Perfection doesn’t exist,” the weapons master argues. Karusa is surprised they have the nerve. He wishes they didn’t.

Master Kohga’s lip curls. It is not a pleasant expression. “Is that so?” he asks, staring as though he can see Karusa’s eyes through the Yiga mask. Without warning, he digs his finger into the wound, twisting his wrist back and forth until it bleeds vigorously. Karusa doesn’t let himself gasp, doesn’t let himself outwardly acknowledge the pain at all; the sensation is filtered by mental white noise and carefully timed blinks.

Apparently satisfied by the lack of response, Master Kohga laughs and wipes ineffectually at the blood; Karusa’s chest becomes a grotesque canvas, and still he bleeds. “A shame he’s not bigger, huh? Maybe he’s a late bloomer. Ahhh, Karusa!” he whines, placing his clean hand to his forehead dramatically. “Have you not been eating enough mighty bananas? Is this some sort of early teenage rebellion?”

After a pause, the weapon’s master clears their throat. “He’s not as tall or as broad as his peers, and his strength and reach are consequentially limited. Still…”

“Hmm?”

“He’s outperforming even my most proficient Blademasters. What he lacks in stature, he makes up for in cunning and savagery.”

With a sharp, toothy smile, Master Kohga snaps his fingers once. “Ah, the wonders of youth! An underappreciated blessing, most definitely. Tell me, Karusa, do you feel powerful?”

The question is like the yawning expanse of a poorly hidden trap. Karusa takes a breath, then another. He wishes he were fighting still, wishes for the simplicity of hurt-or-be-hurt. He… does not know how to respond.

If Karusa answers no, is he discrediting his upbringing, his trainers, the Yiga who have fought and sacrificed to keep his existence the barest whisper of a rumor in the highlands? Would it imply he’s weak, or unworthy? Would it mean he’s a coward?

If Karusa answers yes, is he arrogant? Will overconfidence earn him yet another lesson in humility? Worse, will he be accused of trying to usurp Lord Calamity’s claim?

He has heard whispers that he is marked, that he is destined to bring about salvation. Since childhood, Karusa has had been taught a wealth of practical knowledge. History and swordsmanship. Hand-to-hand combat and the means to survive in the harshest wildlands. He knows how the Sheikah have devolved into simpering fools for Hyrule’s greedy royal family; how much pressure it takes to drive a blade through an opponent’s skull; how much pain he can endure before he blacks out; how it feels to shiver and sweat and starve while marching, endlessly, with only the simple will to _live_.

But… does he feel powerful?

Master Kohga’s smile is a knowing, awful thing. He waits, letting the seconds drip and drip by.

Karusa decides he is not a coward, but he’s not stupid either. “My strength is a reflection of the Clan,” he states, quiet yet firm.

For a moment, Master Kohga merely stares, expression slipping toward surprise. Then he throws back his head and guffaws. His shoulders shake with his mirth, and he slaps his thigh twice. Red fingerprints are left behind. “What… a trap of an answer,” he says between laughs. “You little shit.” He glances at the weapons master and gestures toward Karusa. “Isn’t he a little shit? How could I possibly turn that back around without insulting myself?”

The weapons master shakes his head. His body language is highly uncomfortable. “It was… well-navigated.”

Still smiling, Master Kohga wiggles his fingers dismissively. “Boring,” he accuses the weapons master. “I’m done with you. Go on, now.”

Wordlessly, the weapons master bows and departs.

It’s only when they’re alone that Master Kohga’s smile fades. “Walk with me,” he orders flatly.

They end up on a catwalk overlooking the Yiga Clan’s modest garden. Nearby sconces disperse nighttime shadows with flickering tongues of firelight. Standing slightly behind and to the side of Master Kogha, Karusa gazes down at a row of immature hydromelons. His skin feels tacky with drying sweat and blood.

“When was the last time you felt him?” Master Kohga asks quietly. His stare is trained on the cloudless black sky.

The question is not unanticipated. Even so, Karusa is careful not to answer too quickly. “Six nights ago.”

“Hm… You can sense it, right? How close we are?”

Karusa wishes he could shut his eyes, just for a moment. He settles for another slow breath. “Yes. It is…” Exhilarating. Terrifying. Dizzying. Steadying. “An honor to be a part of.”

Master Kohga rolls his eyes harder than Karusa ever thought possible. “Ugh. Don’t be so dull! Of _course_ it’s an honor; that tells me nothing good.”

“Yes, Master Kohga,” Karusa intones.

Scoffing, Master Kohga whirls toward him with a narrow-eyed squint. “Sometimes I can’t tell if we’ve beaten all the fun out of you, or if you’re just a subtle asshole.”

For the second time that night, Karusa does not know how to answer. Since there wasn’t a definite question anyway, he elects to stay quiet.

Overhead, several keese flitter between finger-like, narrow hoodoos. Their wings intermittently glow with electricity. They’re the closest thing the desert has to fireflies, and Karusa enjoys watching them.

Following his line of sight, Master Kohga’s expression quickly turns thoughtful. He is as captive to the desert’s rare indulgences as they all are. A willing witness to life that endures among the arid rock and dry wind.

“Tomorrow morning,” Master Kohga murmurs, "you’ll join a small team on a trip to the Lanayru wetlands. Pack accordingly.”

Karusa looks over in surprise, too quickly. He inwardly chastises himself for being so transparent. No doubt relishing Karusa’s curiosity, Master Kohga pauses to pick at something between his teeth. His eyes still follow the keese, reflecting currents.

“The Zora queen has been rather vocal about supporting this… _champion_ idea of Rhoam’s. It’s incredibly unbecoming. Her nagging is beginning to stir up sympathy even in the Rito.” He sighs, letting his shoulders slump forward with the force of his exhalation. “What a bitch.”

“Dead or alive?” Karusa asks simply, conscious of the sudden pressure in his core, the strange, buoyant sensation that rolls through each limb.

He’s… _excited_ , he realizes. He has been allowed to leave the highlands on several occasions, always for the purpose of training. His memories of the rest of the world are devastatingly crisp from the aftereffects of fear and discomfort, but he relishes them all the same. There’s _so much_ to see—towering forests and depthless glaciers and mouth-like caves that drip liquid fire. The prospect of an adventure without the expectation of improvement is thrilling.

The world is a wild place, and Karusa longs to experience all of it. He’ll gladly take a life for the chance. Especially if it means ensuring Lord Calamity’s success.

“As nice as it would be to hold such an expensive bargaining chip, there’s no need,” Master Kohga assures with a smirk. “This will send an important message. And I’m sure the political fallout will be entertaining, to say the least.”

Karusa bows low, already looking forward to the cool waters of the Domain. “I won’t fail you.”

“I know. Enjoy your fishing trip.”

Karusa is used to the frailty of his dreams. They are conduits for Lord Calamity, when mental barriers are weak; through them, Lord Calamity shares impressions of past lives, wrathful and insidious glimpses of power wrought through indifferent goddesses and a hungering sense of self. The visions are as terrible as they are captivating. 

Over time, the corruption of Karusa’s mindscape grows stronger, until even wakefulness is heavy with the drought of lingering darkness.

He awakens one morning to nausea. There is a thrum under his skin, a malignancy like a leech that sinks into his bones. He briefly fantasizes about using his nails to peel himself open until he’s blissfully empty of everything. His left hand aches.

And then, reverberating in his skull, Lord Calamity speaks: _My… chosen hero… it’s… been… so long._

Karusa clutches the back of his head where his Yiga mask does not protect him. He swallows down bile and struggles to breathe. “L-lord Calamity.”

There’s laughter, grating and wretched and everywhere. _You… know… my name._

Karusa squeezes his eyes shut, shaking all over. The stone floor of his bedroom is cold and unforgiving against his knees. He doesn’t remember getting out of bed. “G—Ganondorf,” he gasps.

Lord Calamity seeps into Karusa’s mind like some viscous poison, pulling him _down down down_ toward the unknown. _Soon…_ Ganondorf promises, voice like ichor. _This time… together… we’ll feast… on… their despair._

Then, with all the impermanence of a popped bubble, the dark presence is gone.

Karusa trembles as he picks himself off the floor. He touches his mask, unnerved by how bland it feels in in the aftermath. Before he can truly gather himself, before he can process the wake of Lord Calamity’s promise, there’s a knock at his door.

Master Kohga lets himself in almost immediately. He appears uncharacteristically disheveled. “Oh good, you’re already awake,” he says, ignoring the way Karusa still shakes. “Report to the Hall of Lanterns. Quickly.”

Karusa swallows past his nausea. “Why?” he chances, too overwhelmed to care what his disrespect might earn.

Master Kohga pauses in the doorway, not quite looking at Karusa. “…I think it might be your sixteenth birthday.

“Things are going to change.”

_Thump._

Karusa stands before the Spring of Courage, defiant. His mask has been decorated with thin, spiraling black lines. Half of his hair is drawn up in a high, elegant bun, and the rest is woven into complicated braids. His ears are adorned with silver strings interspersed with topaz, and they glisten gently under the moonlight. When he steps into the water, his ceremonial robes billow beneath the surface like smoke.

 _Thump_.

“We are a people of strength!” Master Kohga yells, indifferent to the ancient stonework beneath his feet. The Clan chants lowly behind him. Theirs is a unified voice, resonating throughout the hollow.

At the base of the goddess statue, the spring begins to ripple.

“We have fought, we have sacrificed—flesh and family and home! And now, we offer a Hero.”

_Thump._

Master Kohga’s mask gleams brightly, its edges inlaid with fine streaks of gold. His pacing is timed to the rhythmic beating of the drums.

“A Hero brought forth from the violent absence of divine intervention. A Hero _gifted_ to the Clan. His upbringing has been built upon a foundation wreathed in prophecy.”

_Thump._

“The goddesses have turned their backs on the world. They’ve abandoned generations to a never-ending cycle of famine and desolation and servitude. But tonight…” Master Kohga’s voice breaks with emotion, but he does not allow himself to falter for long. “Tonight, we denounce this curse. Tonight, we dictate our fate!”

 _Thump_.

The Clan’s respected holy figures tip large, clay pots toward the water. As the Spring of Courage thickens with fresh Shiekah blood, spellwork slowly pervades the Yigas’ chanting.

_Thump._

Karusa stares at the statue of the goddess, feeling strangely out of place. He tries to find strength in the voices of his people, tries to find comfort in knowing his role in the world. Instead, it is strangely easy to imagine disappointment in the statue’s blank eyes.

He takes a single step forward, and his wrist is suddenly grasped.

Master Kohga leans in close, the toes of his pristine boots darkening from the blood. “Karusa,” he murmurs. His nervous swallow is audible even over the churning of the water. “Do us proud.”

 _Thump_.

Without replying, Karusa resolutely turns back to the statue. The weight of its gaze doesn’t change. As he walks toward the center of the spring, toward the swirling, bubbling unknown, he tells himself he doesn’t feel afraid.

The air becomes stifling with magic. Small waves push and pull at Karusa like grasping fingers.

_Thump._

With a sharp _crack_ , one of the statue’s wings breaks off. The resulting splash looks nearly black, and Karusa becomes thoroughly doused in the cloying scent of copper.

When his left hand touches the water, a vicious undercurrent pulls him under.

 _Thump_.

Malice pours into him, flooding his veins near to bursting. He _burns_ with corruption, and his writhing becomes a centripetal force in the depths of the infected spring. Darkness closes in, crushing his chest until he’s desperate for air, until he doesn’t know which way is up or down, until there is only the agony of being stripped down to his very core. His pain is fathomless; it claws and rakes and rends until, like the dousing of a candle, his light is no more.

When Karusa finally emerges from the water, it is with a guttural scream and eyes that reflect specks of Malice. He barely notices the celebratory cheering of the Yiga, can’t be bothered to care that the goddess statue begins to crumble; he cannot focus on anything but the black, smoldering scar across the back of his left hand and the booming laughter that echoes throughout his mind.

 _At last, my chosen hero,_ Lord Calamity purrs, _I have given you real purpose._

Afterward, they call him Spiritblight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: The Big Return™  
> Hoooo boy I can't wait to type "Link" again tbh


	3. Nature vs Nurture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that the rating has been changed to Explicit.

One year later, with a roar that shakes the kingdom, Lord Calamity returns.

A festering miasma glistens over Hyrule Castle. The ground quivers and splits, and from the fissures Malice spews forth, welling like purulence from a terrible, infected wound. In the thickest areas, sickly eyes begin to appear; they swivel on spindle-like stalks, unblinking and foul. The four largest of these eyes weep black tears that coalesce into grasping appendages and dripping jowls, swelling and swelling until four phantoms are born.

From atop Hyrule Ridge, Karusa watches the phantoms quickly scuttle toward opposite corners of the kingdom. He can feel the depth of their hunger like it’s his own, the pangs of want for devastation and conquest. These new connections are invasive, constant ripples in the back of his mind. Distance does little to sever the bonds. He swears he can taste blood when one of the phantoms bites into an unsuspecting boar, can feel the way the ground crumbles underfoot as another reaches the slopes of Death Mountain. There’s dew on his skin and familiar sand under his nails and a chilly snap of wind in his hair. And still that _hunger_ , that all-consuming need to rend. He wants to snap his teeth, wants to curl his fingers into claws, wants to—

“Lord Spiritblight, shall we accompany you?”

The words are like being doused in icy water. Karusa seeks the edges of himself, pulling at his thoughts until there’s a semblance of identity. He focuses on the roiling Malice in the distance, letting it center him.

Lord Calamity’s presence has become a constant in his mindscape, a permeation of smog that wafts between layers of consciousness. He will simply have to adapt to his new siblings, too.

Only once Karusa feels collected does he spare the bowing Footsoldier a glance. “No. Patrol the roads leading from the capital. The Guardians will drive our enemies toward the surrounding villages. Use this opportunity to cull them.”

With a respectful nod, the Footsoldier takes off to relay his orders.

Karusa is only left in peace for a moment before there’s a demonstrative flash of light. Instinctually, he braces for a heavy pat or a teasing elbow; logically, he knows Kohga won’t dare touch him, now.

“Marvelous, isn’t it? It’s better than I could have ever imagined. My heart can barely take it!” Kohga clutches a hand to his chest and swoons gently, clearly admiring the cascade of darkness in the near distance. “I take it you’ll seize the castle yourself?”

Karusa shakes his head. “The princess—”

 _Strip the flesh from her bones!_ Lord Calamity howls. _Let Hylia’s chosen writhe in agony! Rejoice in the bitch’s suffering!_

“—is my priority. She needs to die before she can awaken Hylia’s power.”

_Gut her! Skewer her!_

Only belatedly does Karusa realize his left hand is wreathed in shadow. Malice sizzles as it drips from his fingers unto the ground. It’s an embarrassing lapse of control, and it reeks of Lord Calamity’s influence. Grimacing behind his mask, Karusa shakes out his hand, and the darkness dissipates neatly. 

“Look at you,” Kohga murmurs fondly.

Karusa ignores him. There’s a tug on his mind, a spiritual pressure that draws his attention like the plucking of a string. It’s not unlike the feeling he gets from Lord Calamity, and sometimes he wonders if it’s always been there, if he was simply always meant to harbor the roots of powers greater than him. He looks southeast, toward Hylia’s vassal.

He wonders if the princess can feel him, too.

Kohga follows his gaze, briefly content to foster the silence. His uniform, as usual, is astoundingly pristine. “Before you go, I have a gift.”

He steps back and makes a grand, sweeping flourish with both arms, summoning a sword cushioned in dark red silk. The blade is subtly curved, and its fresh edge gleams enticingly. Embedded in the pommel are bright star fragments, a simple declaration of wealth beneath a practical, unadorned grip. Kohga offers it wordlessly.

Karusa can’t help but admire the design. When he brushes his fingers across the flat of the blade, the fragments pulsate with glimmers of his corruption. “It’s beautiful,” he admits, giving a few experimental swings, pleased with the way the sword practically sings. His hand tingles with the telltale effects of magical upgrades.

“It’s a Gerudo blade,” Kohga tells him, sounding undeniably pleased. “I thought it poetic.”

 _Yes!_ Laughter like the sifting of old graveyard dirt. _Wet the steel of my people with Hylian blood. We’ll compose stanzas from their weeping._

Karusa nods absently, testing the balance. “A fitting choice,” he agrees. “Is there a sheath?”

“Already tied to your saddle. I assumed even you would recognize the lack of decorum in _hiking_ on such a momentous day.”

Karusa nods again. It’s getting harder to resist Hylia’s queasy pull, and his finds his gaze drawn once more to the southeast. “What will you do?”

“Oh, you know me. Places to be, pikes to decorate.” Kohga tilts his head to the side sharply, and Karusa can easily imagine the wide stretch of his grin. “Kings to slow roast.”

“Happy hunting, I suppose."

“Oh, I’ve never been happier!”

Zelda has never felt so miserable.

Her prayers have gone unanswered, her powers unawakened. Calamity Ganon is far stronger than anyone ever expected, and his craft more insidious. The Hero of Courage has never been found; the Master Sword rests dormant and hidden in the Lost Woods. Faced with the onslaught of Malice, her father had been preparing to make a stand in the capital, had ordered her to flee even as he stayed behind with their people.

And her friends—her friends had been _murdered_ , betrayed by the very Divine Beasts they had worked so hard to pilot. By several accounts, there had been terrible monsters waiting within the bellies of the Divine Beasts; activating the ancient technology had triggered some sort of corruption, and the bodies of her friends had been consumed by dark specters. All their efforts, all their collective spirit and valor and warm-hearted conviction to do _good_ , gone.

And she, Princess Zelda of Hyrule, physical embodiment of the Goddess Hylia, spiritual successor to Nayru and supposed bearer of the Triforce of Wisdom…

She can only run.

 _I’ve failed them all,_ Zelda thinks despairingly, again and again and again. _I left my father to die. I left my friends, my countrymen, my home, to drown in Malice. I’ve failed them all!_

She stumbles, foot catching on a small rock, but a steady tug on her hand keeps her from falling.

“Careful, Princess,” Orin says, red eyes trained on their surroundings. There is a gash across his hairline, and the rain is preventing it from properly scabbing over. His sodden, white hair drips pink intermittently.

Orin has been Zelda’s personal guard ever since she was a child. Selected from amongst the Sheikah for his honorable character and swordsmanship abilities, he has been a shadow at her side for as long as she can remember. A near-constant fixture of professional stoicism, with a stalwart sense of responsibility she often found suffocating.

Now, Zelda doesn’t think she could be any more grateful for his steadfast composure.

The river to her right swells from the heavy rain, threatening to spill out over the bank. The plain leading to Fort Hateno is covered in temporary rivulets, and mud splatters thickly against Zelda’s legs. Guiltily, she spares a thought for her horse. The fiery Andalusian mare had galloped her and Orin away from the dark tendrils threatening to engulf Hyrule Field, swift and fearless and enduring.

They had almost made it as far as the Dueling Peaks before her skull was crushed by a Moblin’s dragonbone club.

“Just a bit further,” Orin assures her. A gust of wind carries the rain sideways and distorts his tone. “Once we reach—"

Without warning, Orin suddenly pulls her aside to squat behind a natural rock formation. At her nervous, questioning stare, he holds up a hand for patience and warily glances around. Blatchery Plain is thick with muted shades of gray, and fog wisps across its gentle slopes. In the distance, the stone walls of Fort Hateno look like gravestones.

“I thought I heard something,” Orin mutters quietly.

Zelda wipes her hair from her face and nods in understanding.

For a while, it’s just the two of them—focal points of life fleeing darkness. Then, like a spider scuttling from its nest, a Guardian crests the nearest hill. Its long, mechanical legs sink partially in the mud, but its head rotates smoothly as it searches for targets. Seeing none, it begins to descend the hill.

Zelda’s throat feels tight with fear. They’re basically trapped, she realizes. Their hiding place isn’t defensible, and the Guardian is getting closer and closer. If they’re spotted…

Orin looks at her, pupils blown with adrenaline. His grip on her arm turns bruising, and he licks raindrops from his lips. “When I give the word, I want you to sprint toward the tree line. You’ll have a better chance of avoiding them in the forest.” Zelda tries to interrupt, tries to deny the strange sense of finality that sends chills down her spine, but Orin’s tone is firm. “You have to make it, you understand? All of this is for nothing if you’re lost.”

Zelda’s eyes burn, but the rain does well to hide her tears. “We’ll run together.”

Orin shakes his head. “I can’t defend us from its blast from a distance. We’d be easy targets. This is your best chance—the kingdom’s best chance.”

“I haven’t—” The words become stuck in her throat, mired under shame and terrible grief. “I haven’t been able to awaken my power. I’m—I’m not worth—”

Orin pulls her close before she can finish, hugging her with a fierceness that makes her gasp. “You are,” he insists, uncharacteristically emotional. “Now, get ready to run.”

Thunder peals overhead, and their hiding place glows red under the Guardians’ malicious scrutiny.

“Go!” Orin yells, giving her a little shove toward the woods, toward the chance for safety, just before he runs in the opposite direction, toward mechanical whirs and a cyclopean beam.

A small blast sends bits of stone flying. Zelda is forced to look away from the heat of it, and she trips out of her hiding place, stumbling clumsily until she can right herself. There’s a screech behind her, the sharp ringing of metal on metal.

Then there’s a tremendous explosion.

Zelda hits the ground with a gasp, biting her tongue as she rolls through the mud. When she looks back, she sees fire and twisted metal. There’s no sign of Orin among the wreckage.

She pushes herself up, ignoring the blood in her mouth and the fresh scrapes along her side. “Orin!” she yells, trying not to hope too much, trying not to think of every other loved one she has left behind. There is no answering call. A minute goes by, and one of the Guardian's lights flickers weakly.

“All of this is for nothing if I’m lost,” Zelda repeats in a whisper. It is not the inspiration she needs it to be. Still, it helps her move, to take that first step toward the forest. The second, the third. There is bitterness in every moment of self-reflection, a resentment that drives her to _keep going, run, don’t let them have died in vain_. 

But amid the pouring rain, Zelda can suddenly hear a new sound. Like a metronome heralding cataclysm, there is a rhythmic thundering of hooves, and it grows louder with every second. She knows, deep in her soul, destiny is at risk. Trembling, she looks back and gasps at what she sees.

Pealing across the soaked plains is a war horse, a gray beast of an animal dressed in battle accoutrements. Its rider wears a Yiga mask.

Zelda runs as fast as she possible can, lungs and legs burning. The rain is almost blinding, but she doesn’t dare pause. The tree line grows closer, every branch like a skeletal hand promising sanctuary, and she wants to reach out even if it’s silly, even if the danger behind her can surely follow. But the hoofbeats grow louder as the Yiga draws nearer, and when she can hear the horse’s labored huffs she know she's not going to make it there in time. Zelda slides in the mud as she abruptly turns to face this new threat.

Horse and rider look like phantoms in the rain, and fear weaves its way into every half-formed thought as Zelda sucks in an unsteady breath. Lifting a hand palm-out, she desperately wills her power to wake up; she calls upon Hylia beseechingly, offering a quick prayer and an even quicker curse. And for one brief, bewildering moment, as the Yiga assassin draws a sword and leans out of the saddle to strike her down, Zelda thinks she can hear her name being shouted.

_Not like this. Please, not like this._

Two kunai fly through the air, dual streaks that part the rain with a whistle; the first glances off the rider’s chainmail, and the second gouges a messy line out of the back of the horse’s left forelimb; the horse screams, its weight buckling from a severed tendon, and the Yiga is forced to hastily dive from the saddle before they're crushed.

Zelda stares in alarm, covering her mouth with one hand. Instinctively, she tries to track the source of the kunai, and that’s when she sees Orin jogging toward her. His left arm is held close to his chest, skin blackened and steaming.

She meets Orin halfway, trying not to focus on how pallid he looks. “Thank the Goddess you’re okay!”

Orin hardly spares her a glance, eyes trained on her attacker as they wordlessly stand. He draws his Eightfold blade with his good arm. “You need to keep going.”

“You can’t ask me to leave you behind twice.”

The horse is still screaming, blood spurting from its maimed forelimb as it attempts to stand. The Yiga watches it flail for a moment, posture loose and expression hidden. When they turn away from the animal, the action is clearly dismissive.

“This won’t be the only assassin,” Orin says. “The Yiga Clan has numbers.”

Zelda swallows thickly. “You’re hurt.”

“I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”

“But—”

The Yiga assassin takes a single step toward her, and Orin pointedly steps between them. “You’ll have to get past me first, traitor.”

After a moment, the Yiga assassin simply nods. They take their time to approach, moving languidly despite the gravity of the situation. Their sword somehow manages to veritably glow in the overcast. Their light armor is plain, with interspersing red weaves over thin chainmail. Fixed to their shoulder plates are broad, bone-white spikes.

 _Molduga teeth_ , Zelda realizes, dread and fascination mingling.

But the Yiga assassin’s mask—its single inverted eye is too heavy, too intensely ensnaring to be anything but cursed. There are sprawling black lines around the eye, a script that Zelda does not recognize. The mask swallows light as though its gaze can burn through it.

“Orin, there’s something… off,” she warns, not knowing what to really say, not knowing how to convey just how _wrong_ everything about this Yiga is.

Orin nods as though he understands anyway.

The rain lessens, a gentle call to aggressive action, and so it begins.

Swift and precise, the Yiga assassin darts forward, striking like one of the desert’s great serpents in a single-minded campaign for blood.

Orin parries the strikes, but the Yiga is agile; they move like a dancer, testing Orin’s defenses with varying, nuanced attacks.

Orin tries to disrupt their footwork, moving in a tight circle. His counterattacks are focused, a homage to his structured training. When the Yiga assassin thrusts forward, Orin deflects their sword and counters.

Between one step and the next, they lock blades; the sound of steel kissing steel is jarring enough to make Zelda grit her teeth. There’s a pause, a tense overture of friction as Orin glares at the Yiga’s mask, then the assassin delivers a brutal kick to Orin’s injured arm.

With a pained snarl, Orin shoves the Yiga back. He holds his Eightfold blade at the ready. As if emboldened, the Yiga feints to the left before slashing at a downward angle. It leaves their side unguarded briefly. Another slash and parry, another chiming exchange.

When the Yiga feints to the left again, Orin takes advantage of the opening. He strikes toward the Yiga’s exposed chest, but the Yiga suddenly steps aside with a fluid twist.

And all at once, in the breadth of a heartbeat, Zelda knows it was a trap.

Caught overreaching, Orin can’t correct his stance quickly enough. The Yiga assassin slashes his stomach, and Orin’s skin parts like a ripened fruit. He groans loudly, the sound of an animal in its awful throes as his intestines spill out. They hit the ground with a squelch, glistening pink ropes in the mud.

“No!” Zelda screams shrilly, needing to run to him, needing to stay where she’s at, needing to be stronger and smaller and anywhere else and right by his side. Needing this to _stop_.

Orin makes an abortive effort to hold his insides. His face is white, and he quivers as he goes into shock.

The Yiga assassin waits nearby, respectfully wary of an opponent still breathing.

And Orin—brave, honorable, steadfast Orin—glances up from his innards, hyperventilating quietly, and shakily raises his sword—a last, resolute effort to save the young woman who might save them all.

The Yiga assassin does not do him the disservice of ignoring his effort; they knock the Eightfold aside and, almost gently, kick the back of Orin’s knees so he’s forced to kneel.

“I’m sorry,” Orin wheezes, meeting Zelda’s stare with pained eyes. A second later, exposed by a tug to his hair, his throat is slit.

“Orin,” Zelda wails, voice breaking in her heartache. She swallows down vomit and struggles to breathe deeply through her nose.

 _Red red red_.

The Yiga turns toward her, unhurried. They twirl their blade, and specks of Orin’s blood fly free. There’s something foul about the Yiga, something insidious that clings to their person like a second skin. It’s a blackness in Zelda’s periphery, a perverseness that thickens the very air. Like oil over water, it feels like a separation of identity.

"Who are you?” Zelda murmurs wretchedly, hands curled into fists by her sides. “Why do you feel so cold?"

The rain becomes a drizzle. Behind the Yiga assassin, their horse gives up and waits to die.

"Lord Calamity would have you suffer," they finally say, and their voice is younger than she expected. Empty, too. “But I will make this quick."

They stalk toward her at an angle, globules of Malice spreading from each step. And all at once, Zelda recognizes the warped, sickening aura around them.

"You're… You’re the one who destroyed the Spring of Courage, aren't you?” Tears drip down her cheeks as she remembers the ruined holy place. All the wanton destruction, the devastating hopelessness of her pursuit. “Did you kill him, too? Did you kill the Hero of Courage?"

The Yiga lifts their sword in answer, prepared to strike her down.

Zelda blinks, and she sees her Champions—four beautiful friends laughing around a campfire. She blinks, and she sees Orin, pretending not to notice as she sneaks a sip of apple brandy. Blinks, and sees the Divine Beasts doused in shadow. Blinks, and sees Orin’s gaping throat. Her father’s faraway back. Soldiers dissolved by corruption. Caravans besieged. Children on bokoblin spitfires.

The Kingdom has fallen, and the dead outnumber the living—but if she fails here, then there will _only_ be the dead.

Zelda holds up her hand as the Yiga brings down their sword, and blinding light engulfs them both. A blanching warmth seeps into her core, glowing brighter and brighter until her very soul feels like a rival to the sun. Her hair floats like a halo around her.

But as with all fuses that burn too brightly, the moment is short-lived.

The Yiga assassin is blown backward, a fissure of light snapping their mask in half; their back strikes a tree trunk with a sharp crack, and they do not stir again.

Zelda gasps as the light fades, briefly panicked that she will lose it forever. But she can still feel it if she concentrates, a divine suffusion centered in her chest. Her knees shake terribly, adrenaline warring with exhaustion, and she struggles to remain upright.

Zelda forces herself to look at the Yiga, at the would-be killer of many. She can see their face now, though shards of the mask have scored deep gouges in the left side of their face and upper neck. A teenage boy, she notes absently, probably close to her in age.

It hardly matters now. His spine is bent at an unnatural angle. Still, his chest rises and falls. She feels sour as she stares at him, feels aggrieved and furious and utterly sick. He _breathes_ , and her friends—Orin—Hyrule’s innocents—

Before Zelda can think about what she’s doing, she stumbles toward him. There’s intent behind every unsteady step, an awful purpose, but she pauses when her foot strikes something in the grass. The right side of the Yiga mask stares up at her, its half-eye ending in a jagged line. She picks it up and thinks, _Perfect_.

The last few steps are easier. When she reaches the boy’s side, she presses the mask’s edge to his throat. But the warmth in her chest flares uncomfortably; little palpitations seize her heart, and that’s when Zelda sees it: Malice flickering like a shadow around the boy’s left hand. She stares at the tongues of darkness, wondering at the strange sense of compulsion, at the way Hylia’s power hums quietly in response. Feeling trepidation like a physical weight, she reaches out and touches the back of his hand.

Instantly, the Malice shrills as though in pain, evaporating with sizzles and pops. And underneath the shadow, thick like a scar and glowing with alternating light and darkness, is the symbol of the Triforce.

"You—what have they done to you?" Zelda demands, staring in dawning horror.

The boy does not awaken. It is possible he never will. But magic is a volatile thing, and Zelda doesn’t doubt the strength of Calamity Ganon’s machinations. She should kill the boy. She _knows_ she should. Just in case. Yet as she watches filaments of light swirl around the back of his hand, subdued by shadow but _still shining_ , Zelda can’t bring herself to do it.

“I need guidance,” she pleads, looking up at the overcast sky. “Please, please tell me what I should do.”

As ever, there is no answer. A breeze stirs the grass, but Blatchery Plain is otherwise quiet. Zelda hangs her head and bites her lip, trying not to cry again, when the boy is abruptly shrouded in thick spools of Malice. With a short yelp, she crawls backward on her hands, alarmed by the voraciousness of the shadows as they swallow the boy whole. 

Zelda gets an answer after all, though not the one she wanted.

“Your weakness will cost you,” Calamity Ganon roars, voice like an echo all around her, blood-curdling in its hatefulness. “I will flood this fucking kingdom with the viscera of its people, and your precious Hero will be my harbinger. Pray to your fucking Hylia—pray until you understand the enormity of your pointlessness.”

He laughs, and the Hero of Courage disappears into the yawning blackness.

“No!” Zelda answers heatedly, determination crashing through her with a fierceness she’s never known before. She won’t cower down from this monstrosity of fate. She won’t let the darkness win without a fight. “I’ll stop you, as I have _always_ stopped you!”

Calamity Ganon laughs again, and the tree where the Hero laid begins to shrivel and die. “I will enjoy stripping that hope from your flesh.”

The Malice vanishes, its absence like a vacuum that shakes the ground, and Zelda understands intuitively that she’s alone again. She takes several deep breaths, ignoring the spots that float in her vision, the enticing pull of unconsciousness.

“Hero… are you truly lost?”

Zelda looks in the direction of the castle. For the first time in her life, she thinks she knows what she must do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo! This ended up being a much bigger chapter than I had anticipated writing, but there was so much to include! It was hard to strike a balance for Zelda, because she’s such a strong character but she’s also faced with so much self-doubt and grief in the game. Hopefully Yiga!Link is as fun to read as he was to write. I’d love to know your thoughts!! :)
> 
> Next time: another awakening, and some familiar LU heroes!


	4. Voiceless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consistent pacing? Never met her.

_Wake up,_ something growls, so he does.

There’s darkness all around the teenager, thick and yolky. It clings to him like a second skin. He doesn’t know where he is or what’s happening—only fear of the inky unknown and an intense pressure in his head that feels like a threat. The teenager instinctively claws his way through the blackness, trusting that there’s a way out, that this cold, womb-like pit can be escaped.

Seconds pass without change. Abruptly, he realizes he’s been breathing ever since he opened his eyes; there’s no difficulty, no sense of drowning—as if the darkness is already nestled thoroughly within him, at home within his lungs and blood and very self. His heartbeat quickens with mounting terror at the thought. 

Then, at the very edges of his fingertips, the teenager can feel something else—grit and moisture, a coarseness like loam soil. He doubles his efforts, scratching and thrashing his way through this darkness-entrenched lair, until he’s suddenly tearing through a thin, filamentous sac.

He pulls himself free with a gasp, sucking in mouthfuls of fresh air. Around him, the darkness forms a pool, seeping out of its confinement. He looks around, but he doesn’t recognize the narrow embankment he’s sheltered within, nor the small lake dotted with stalagmites below.

 _Get up high_ , he thinks instinctively. _Stay calm. Find a decent vantage point._

But the teenager can’t bring himself to move at first. His back aches and his body trembles, and he keeps glimpsing flashes of—of _something_ when he blinks. A dizzying swirl of colors and sensations with no basis. Locations? People? Hunger? 

Nothing makes sense. 

_Focus_ , he tells himself, having no idea what to focus _on_. 

The teenager counts to ten, breathing slowly, then moves. Yet as soon as he drags himself clear of the strange, gelatinous darkness, it begins to bubble. A deep, rumbling voice emanates from the pit, echoing painfully in his head. 

_At long last, you are ready,_ it announces with vitriol. _For one hundred years, I have been forced to wait—growing my army and spreading Malice across the land. The peoples of Hyrule have been driven to near extinction. They are scattered, and they cower in what remains of their villages like fucking roaches._

Every word is like a lightning strike, coursing through him with searing intensity. He hunches forward, seeing spots every time he blinks. His thoughts are sluggish.

 _You failed me before¸_ the voice sneers. _Your weakness allowed the princess to awaken her powers. I have often thought of killing you—incinerating your soul in Malice, burning your spirit to nothingness. Your anguish would have been magnificent! But no, no. Only by corrupting your Courage can this infuriating fucking cycle be stopped._

Malice? A princess? What cycle? It’s a struggle to follow anything that’s being said. He gags, tasting the darkness in the back of his throat, and alternates between pulling his hair and scratching at his forehead. Anything to relieve the pressure in his mind. He can’t think, he _can’t think_. 

The voice does not care.

_Incorporeal, I have fought the bitch princess off, biding my time until your injuries could heal and my Power could be fully restored. But her spirit is weakening. Now is the time to strike!_

_Travel to the castle. Cut her down. I’ll string her up by her insides, stretch her skin across the—_

“Ugh, shut up," the teenager groans, squeezing his eyes shut when he feels a sharp pain in his throat.

_…Excuse me?_

He attempts to trace the haziness in his thoughts, scrambling his way through the mental mire just as he had clawed through the darkness.

 _How dare you?_ the voice roars, and the black pit undulates and glows. _I am the King of Evil, the reincarnation of Demise! You miserable little fuckwit, don’t you ever speak to me that way!_

There, at the edges of awareness, the teenager can feel where the voice bleeds into his consciousness. He tugs at the source as though he can tear it down, but the voice grows louder and distorted. So he does the next logical thing—he pushes.

_Don’t you fucking try to block me out! Cur! Whoreson! I’ll rip—_

He grits his teeth and _shoves_ , imagining walls being slammed into place. There’s resistance, a significant pushback; his temples pound as the darkness begins to hiss. But he’s tenacious, and his intent is singular. With a final, aggressive strike, the voice and its accompanying pressure vanish. He slowly opens his eyes and sags in relief. The pit begins to congeal, lifeless.

And then there’s just… silence.

The teenager wonders what he’s supposed to do now.

Broken segments of chainmail and shriveled strips of leather cling to his body. What might have once fit him now hangs uselessly, broken and aged beyond repair. The teenager removes the armor piece by piece, wondering why he was wearing it in the first place. Wonders, too, why his body isn’t just as decayed.

But that’s too unsettling to dwell on for long.

A pauldron covers his right shoulder, an off-white spike embedded in its center. The spike resembles a tooth, but he has no idea what kind of creature could grow teeth so large. After a moment, he sets it aside, thinking it might make a decent weapon until he can find something better.

Free from all the armor, the teenager considers his undergarments. His tunic is hanging by tatters on his left side, and his pants aren’t faring much better. After two quick tugs, they join the heap of garbage. He considers tossing his underwear, but ultimately decides against it because the material appears mostly intact. 

The warm, humid night air feels like a soothing balm on his filthy skin, liberating in a way he can’t describe. More than the armor and clothes, more than the voice being pushed back, he feels like he’s been unburdened. From what, he has no idea; he’s willing to simply enjoy the feeling while it lasts.

The teenager stretches his arms overhead, causing his back to twinge painfully. Carefully reaching around, he palpates an object attached along his spine, something smooth and cold to the touch. He tries studying his back over his shoulder without much success. Then, seeing the glass-like surface of the lake, he scoots closer to the waterside and twists around to view his reflection.

Nestled along his lower spine are black, metal discs. Connected, they resemble a segment of exoskeleton, blending seamlessly into his skin. The ends are cast in a faint, red glow. Prodding at the metal does nothing to change the dull ache in his back.

Was he impaled? Was it implanted on purpose? If so, by whom? And why? 

Uneasy, the teenager stares until his neck begins to feel tired, then sits back on his heels. Drawn to the smooth surface of the lake, he studies his facial features next, abstractly intrigued by the heavy scarring on the left side. Tracing the tissue with his fingers, he tries to recall something about himself, tries to match his long hair and myriad scars with any sort of memory. But there isn’t one—he feels like a blank slate, a haphazard life freshly born. 

He feels like nothing at all, yet. 

Mud covers much of his skin. Leaning forward, the teenager dips his hands in the lake and tries to scrub them clean. The water turns dark with grime, and the transference is calming to watch. But no matter how vigorously he wipes, he can’t seem to get rid of a large, blotchy spot on the back of his left hand. 

_A stain from the pit?_

Before he has time to ponder the significance of that, there’s movement in his periphery. Without thinking, he swipes up the large tooth, muscles tensing as he settles into a defensive crouch.

On the opposite shoreline, a petite fox trots into view. Its amber eyes watch him warily as it nears the water, predator recognizing predator. Satisfied by the distance between them, the fox lowers its head to take a cautious drink.

The teenager lets out a relieved huff and relaxes, glancing down at the tooth in his hand.

Maybe… Maybe none of it really matters. Whatever happened before can’t be changed. He’s not the same person, couldn’t be even if he wanted to, so it isn’t reasonable to expect him to adhere to that standard. The horrible voice and its darkness might have held sway over him in the past, but all he knows now is what he has: instincts. It’s time to trust them.

Standing up, he looks for a path away from this place.

It’s easy to spend days simply wandering. The forest south of the lake is teeming with all sorts of life. For a while, the teenager lets himself exist whimsically, napping and exploring whenever it suits him. He scavenges mushrooms and tree nuts to take the edge off his hunger when possible. After using the tooth to fashion a sturdy stick into a spear, he tries his hand at hunting; his efforts are largely unsuccessful, but he has fun nonetheless, trusting he’ll improve with practice.

Distractions are found everywhere—glowing stones and chiming lights, old ruins and a tower that reaches the clouds, spider-like statues covered in weeds and even a giant, shimmering flower that demands rupees he doesn’t have. It’s all so… amazing.

One day, the teenager finds an intact building. He takes a moment to inspect the roof from afar, intrigued by the sculpture of a horse head made from mismatched pieces of wood and flimsy scraps of sheet metal. It’s hideous, and he decides he likes it.

Several people stand around the front of the building. They’re the first he’s seen since he woke up. Part of the teenager is curious for interaction while the rest of him can’t help but wonder what might be over the next hill. It’s a silly contradiction, especially when he has time for both. The people interact with each other casually, milling about the building doing chores. There are enough newcomers coming and going that he suspects it wouldn’t be too unusual for him to check the place out.

Unfortunately, he’s mistaken. The people blatantly stare as he approaches, eyes wide and lips guiding whispers. One of them even points. It feels rude until he recalls that he’s covered only by underwear and considerable amounts of mud. So perhaps their reactions are _somewhat_ justified.

A man approaches hesitantly, his balding head covered by a floppy hat. "Young sir, do you need help?"

“No,” the teenager answers automatically, throat twinging faintly from the single word. Best not to speak much, he decides. Glancing around the place, he notes several large animals enclosed in pens, some loose apples, and an old pitchfork. Shadowing the pen is a massive tree he feels an irrational urge to climb. 

“Were you… robbed?” 

He shakes his head, continuing to look around. There’s a fire with a large pot atop it, and the smell it gives off is mouthwateringly good. He wonders what’s inside.

“What’s your name?” the man asks gently, concern etched into his expression.

The teenager’s surprised to realize he… doesn’t know. He’s not even sure _why_ he’s surprised, since he can’t recall anything else about himself, but the idea of being nameless throws him off for a moment. He blinks at the man several times, grasping at memories that simply aren’t there.

Does an identity really matter at this point? How does one define their existence when their memories are younger than their physical body?

After thinking for a while—pointedly ignoring the increasingly concerned looks he’s garnering—the teenager finally shrugs, focusing once more on the cooking pot. His stomach growls quietly.

Despite making intense and awkward eye contact with the woman in front of the fire, there’s no offer to share whatever’s inside. He thinks about stealing some of the contents—actually, the whole pot might be useful—but all eyes are still on him, and it looks heavy. 

Eh, he can always come back and steal it later. Maybe one of the small, brightly feathered birds wandering around, too. He still hasn’t had much luck with hunting.

Setting that idea aside to contemplate later, the teenager turns around and walks away. The man shouts something after him, but he’s not really listening anymore. There’s a cool looking mountain to check out.

That annoying voice keeps trying to talk to him. Usually, it waits until he’s asleep when his guard is down. It’s loud and almost always insulting, and some of its threats are honestly so creative that he has to stop what he’s doing and think them through.

Sometimes the teenager catches glimpses of faraway places, and the sense of hunger that accompanies these fleeting visions is sharp and staggering. They leave him feeling used, like a flame struggling to stay lit on the dwindling end of a wick. 

He quickly becomes better and better at putting up mental walls, though sometimes the voice bellows so furiously that he’s left with a headache for hours after. He takes to calling it Big Grouch, which makes the voice even grouchier.

Life’s little pleasures. 

One day, the teenager hears a different voice. He's so surprised by it that he slips on a rock and falls straight on his ass. But this new voice is soft and beseeching, and it doesn't immediately threaten to rip off his more sensitive parts like Big Grouch regularly does, so he listens curiously at first. After claiming to be a princess, it goes on for a while about shining light on the land, which is kind of a stupid concept on such a sunny day, but he's willing to entertain the thought while digging up grub worms. Then the voice calls him "Hero" and directs his attention to the castle in the far distance, telling him that it's his destiny to fight "calamity." That it's his _moral responsibility_. Which he personally thinks is bogus. He glares at the castle, hoping the new voice can sense his ire, and bites down on a juicy grub.

 _Hero, you must_

_Not a hero,_ he grumbles, wiping dirt from his fingers as he stands. 

_Well, certainly, your circumstances have been... unique. But I can sense_ good _in you, still._

 _Is that right?_ The teenager rolls his eyes, tired of the audacity of these voices.

_Even one hundred years ago, when you were a servant to the beast, your spirit harbored light!_

_Why do I have to be good or bad?_ he questions sharply, plucking at the waistband of his underwear. _I just want to be me, and I’m still figuring out what that means. You have no right to demand anything._

 _You must understand that destiny—What are you—Oh, that's indecent!_

He finishes shimmying his underwear down. _Gotta pee_ , he tells the voice unhelpfully. 

_You could have at least waited—_

_Bye._

The teenager slams his mental walls into place and sighs at the wonderful silence that follows. He really does have to pee. 

The teenager stumbles across a campsite a couple nights later. Sitting around a firepit are four, ugly, pig-like creatures with red, wrinkly skin. They snort and push at each other while a few rabbits roast over the fire. Behind them, another pig creature stands guard on a flimsy looking watchtower. 

It would be easy to avoid being seen—their camp is designed considerably poorly—but the teenager feels compelled to investigate. He can sense a connection to these creatures, a pull like a magnet resonating in his chest. It’s what led him to walk in this direction in the first place. Curiosity is his partner in all things.

He approaches the fire openly, and predictably the pig creature on watch squeals in alarm. Immediately, the other four grab large, crude weapons and form an aggressive semi-circle in front of the firepit. The presumed leader stalks forward, growling low in its throat. 

Not about to be intimidated, the teenager snarls back, making sure to show teeth. The pig leader stops advancing, expression turning toward shock. At first, he thinks it's because of his impressive snarl, but then he sees flickering shadows in his left periphery; he spins quickly, but the flickering is still there at the edge of sight, almost as if it's coming from his scars, or maybe his back. He ends up turning in a complete circle, just to see what might happen. By the time he's facing the pig creatures again, they're all staring with varying levels of bewilderment. When shadows finally dissipate, they continue staring. 

“Uhhh,” he informs them eloquently, grimacing at the painful hoarseness of his voice. Not sure what else to add, he shrugs. 

The pig leader shuffles forward warily, club held at the ready. It sniffs him, its flat nose leaving cold streaks of mucus across his chin. And maybe he stinks, or maybe the pig just realizes that he’s not a threat after all, because its eyes get comically wide and it leaps back.

Seconds later, the pig leader squeals loudly at its subordinates, who all begin throwing their weapons down and making obvious room around the firepit. They beckon him forward with soft grunts and waves, and the smallest one offers him a roasted rabbit as soon as he sits down on a log. 

_Wow,_ the teenager thinks, smiling in thanks before taking a large bite of meat, _they're much friendlier than those stable people._

He sleeps that night beside the fire, at ease among snoring pigs.

_Patience_ , the teenager tells himself, feeling the farthest thing from patient.

He’s standing knee deep in cold water, glaring at a large fish. It’s the same fish he’s been trying to catch for over an hour, and he knows it’s mocking him; it swims in lazy circles between strings of algae, always staying just out of reach. He’s aware that it would be infinitely easier to satisfy his hunger by foraging, but this has become personal. Unfortunately, he’s already managed to break a spear trying to stab the fish—a feat he is never going to admit to anyone—so now he is left with simpler tools: rocks.

He exhales slowly, steadying his throwing arm. The fish swims closer, green scales reflecting the sun. As he takes aim, ripples stir the water upstream, but he pays them no mind. His focused is reserved for his adversary and prize-to-be. 

“Pardon me.”

Heart somewhere in his throat, the teenager gasps and throws his rock at the source of the voice without thinking; there’s just enough time to blink at red, shark-like features before the rock strikes the newcomer’s face with devastating accuracy. 

In all the commotion, his nemesis fish swims away. 

“Ah!” the shark creature groans, clutching his snout in pain. A single drop of blood strikes the water below.

Stepping back toward the shore, the teenager swipes up another rock and takes aim, prompting Sharky to hold up a clawed hand defensively.

“Wait, please! I didn’t mean to frighten you! I just want to talk.”

The teenager pauses, head tilting in curiosity. There’s no way he’s letting his guard down, not in front of a creature more than double his size, but… he supposes there’s no harm in hearing Sharky out. He motions for Sharky to go on, holding firmly to his rock just in case.

Sharky offers a tentative smile. His teeth are… disarmingly sharp. “You have my gratitude! You see, I was hoping to find a Hylian! The Zora are in dire need of assistance. An unnatural rainfall is threatening to flood our reservoir, but because of—"

Sharky abruptly pauses and looks the teenager up and down, as if really taking him in for the first time. Gaze lingering on the grime, numerous scars, and ratty underwear, Sharky’s expression turns vaguely closed-off. A polished sort of polite. “Ah, never mind,” he says, waving dismissively. “I am positive things will work out. Don’t let me distract you from your day! Were you, um, fishing?"

Surprised by the change in topic, the teenager nods. He vaguely wonders why a creature clearly suited for thriving in water would be so concerned about an overfull reservoir, or what a Hylian could possibly do to help.

Sharky glances back toward the bank, where the remnants of a spear lay in a useless pile. “I see… A commendable effort, no doubt! I can certainly assist you!” 

He narrows his eyes at Sharky, searching for judgment behind the offer. Or a trick.

“Please, I insist,” Sharky says quickly, dipping his head respectfully. “Consider it an apology for startling you earlier.”

The teenager raises his brows and taps his own nose with his free hand.

Sharky’s pale, scaly cheeks flush as he gingerly touches the bruise forming across his snout. “Even so! I interrupted your work, it’s the least I can do.”

After a moment of contemplation, the teenager agrees. And, really, it takes a mere moment for Sharky to return with a large, wriggling bass—it’s not _the_ fish, but he supposes Sharky has no way of knowing about his brief and honor-bound feud. Sharky smiles winningly and perfunctorily smacks the fish’s head on a stone, then hands it over. 

Taking a large bite out of the fish’s fleshy side, the teenager decides Sharky is pretty cool after all. Kind of badass, actually, given the curved claws, rows of teeth, and fierce, yellow eyes. Definitely not a creature he wants to fight, so it’s a good thing Sharky seems friendly. He finds himself wondering how fast Sharky must be able to swim, but when he looks over to give those colorful fins an appraising look, he notices that Sharky is gaping.

He holds out the fish, just in case Sharky wants a bite too. Better to share a fish than his own flesh—a guy that big must eat a _lot._

“Oh, no thank you! I just didn’t realize… That is to say, I thought all Hylians preferred to have their meals cooked?”

The teenager shrugs as he swallows, using a finger to pick at a scale that’s stuck between his teeth. Sure, the fish would be less slimy if it were roasted, but he’s hungry _now_ , so.

Sharky laughs lightly, but it’s a gentle kind of laughter, not mocking or pretentious. After a short moment, Sharky scoots back into the shallows, long torso hunching over in an awkward sit. "Forgive my intrusiveness, but can you speak?"

He hums noncommittally, then admits out loud, "Hurts."

"Ah." Sharky nods, polite enough not to press the issue. His eyes linger briefly on the scars along the teenager’s throat. "Are you alone?"

The teenager pauses at that, lowering his meal as he thinks. He’s not sure if he can apply the word _lonely_ to himself, not with Big Grouch and Princess Light always trying to push past his mental walls. Even when they’re quiet, he can sense them, lingering like cool spots on an otherwise warm day. And if he really concentrates, he can get fleeting impressions of others, too—flame-like shadows in faraway places, with appetites potent enough to influence his own.

"Voices,” he grunts eventually, tapping his head.

“Oh, that’s…” Sharky looks saddened by the admission. He stares across the water pensively, his reflection distorted by a mild breeze. Across the lake, a turtle climbs onto a log to sunbathe.

The mood change makes the teenager feel guilty without knowing why. He fidgets, wondering if he should say something else, but Sharky beats him to it.

“Goodness, where are my manners? Here I am, asking all sorts of questions, and I never even introduced myself!” Sharky smiles brightly, clapping his hands together. “I’m Sidon, the Zora prince! May I ask your name? You can fingerspell it, of course! No need to speak.”

A prince, huh? He figures that explains all the frills and jewels. The Zora people must be pretty fancy. He’s not sure what Sidon means by fingerspelling, but it doesn’t matter anyway. He points to himself with a shrug.

Sidon blinks, tail fin lowering. “You don’t… know your name?” 

The teenager shakes his head, annoyed when damp, tangled locks of hair fall across his face.

Sidon’s nonplussed stare morphs into a toothy grin faster than the teenager can track. “In that case, I will have to give you one!” he declares, pumping his fist cheerfully. “That is, of course, if you’ll allow it?” 

The teenager can’t help but laugh breathily. It’s an awkward and quiet sound, and he finds himself wondering if he’s ever laughed before. He surely has, right? 

Seeing Sidon waiting patiently for an answer, the teenager nods.

“Excellent! This is, without a doubt, an honor!” Sidon assures him. He raises his hand to his chin as he thinks. “Let’s see, let’s see… Do you like traditional names? Like Japas? Or Trello?”

The teenager scrunches his nose and shakes his head. 

“Ah, okay, something unique then! Something that suits the true you,” Sidon agrees, smacking his fist against his other palm. His grin slides toward mischievous. “Perhaps… Rocky?” 

It takes the teenager a second to realize Sidon is joking, and the snort he lets out is both undignified and a little painful. He chucks the remainder of his meal at Sidon, prince status be damned. Sidon laughs good-naturedly in response, kicking his short legs in the water.

“I tease, of course. I simply could not resist. But enough of that, you need a name!” Sidon looks him up and down again, only this time there is something closer to warmth in his eyes. “Hmm… How about… Wild?”

The teenager only has to think about it for a moment—Sidon’s right, it _fits._ Smiling, he makes a peace sign with his fingers and nods in acceptance.

“Wonderful! Then I’m happy to make your acquaintance, Wild!” Sidon makes his own peace sign, and then it’s just the two of them holding up peace signs at each other in the dorkiest introduction possible, and he— _Wild_ —thinks he feels really happy for the first time he can ever remember.

Deciding he wants to share that feeling as much as he can, Wild turns toward shore and rummages through his recently—illegally—acquired knapsack until he finds a chunky blue stone he found a few days prior. It looks cool, and he thinks Sidon might think so, too. He holds it out toward the prince with an airy hum.

"Oh!” Sidon’s cheeks flush again, only this time they’re _much_ brighter than before. “Uh, this is—I mean, a sapphire—”

When Sidon glances up, Wild can only smile encouragingly. And after a moment, Sidon bows his head with a short chuckle and takes the stone. “Thank you, friend. This is very kind of you."

Satisfied, Wild leans back on his hands and looks out across the lake, admiring the tranquility of the scene. He repeats his new name to himself, again and again and again, and lets contentment wash over him. Before long, Sidon catches more fish for the both of them, and they talk quietly over their food; time is easily spent yet hardly acknowledged. Only when sunset threatens the horizon does Sidon finally admit he needs to return home.

It’s a good day.

Wild wakes up one night with a gasp, drenched in sour sweat. There’s a thrum under his skin, a heady energy that makes him feel simultaneously empowered and faint. Like a cog spinning so fast it’s about to burn itself out.

The moon is full and blood-red, and flickering embers rain from the sky.

Wild whimpers and curls into a ball, fighting down the urge to be sick. Closing his eyes does nothing to diminish the glaring crimson glow. Then the voices start.

 _Get up, you useless, fucking wretch!_ Big Grouch demands, voice two-toned and otherworldly with rage. _Get up and fight!_

 _Please, be careful!_ Princess Light urges just as loudly. _The Blood Moon calls to_ all _of Ganon’s minions. You must resist!_

_Without my Power, you are nothing! Farore spat you out, but you were raised in my shadow!_

_Look inside yourself! The cycle must not be broken this way. Have faith in your Courage!_

Wild groans, gripping his hair and pressing his forehead into the rocky soil of his sleeping place. _Get out,_ he begs internally. _I can’t—can’t think!_

_Insufferable shitstain! You were to lead my armies! Now look at you—pathetic!_

_Please, I have done my best to hold the beast at bay, but Calamity grows stronger. You_ must _fight!_

_Harbinger!_

_Hero!_

_Remember what—_

_Remember who—_

**_—you are!_ **

“GET OUT!” Wild screams, heedless of the blood he can taste in the back of his throat. He throws himself at his mental walls with ferocity, pushing and pushing until his head feels close to bursting, until he feels a sharp but brief pang at his temples.

To his exhausted relief, his mindscape goes quiet.

Wild takes to sleeping near monster camps. There’s typically a fire, and sometimes there’s fresh meat. He honestly enjoys the company. It’s easy to get used to the sounds of snorts and hisses, and for the most part the monsters make room for him. 

His favorite camp to return to is on Hateno beach. The territory is managed by a cunning, striped bokoblin whose only requirement for respite is a food item to be shared with the other monsters. It’s a well-organized camp; there are watch shifts, fishing nets, and even a well-tended palm tree grove. Sometimes the younger bokoblins bring back sheep from goddess-knows-where, and they patiently allow Wild to experiment with new mutton dishes. When his efforts turn out to be disgusting, they take great pleasure in throwing the food at him and telling him to try again. 

One evening, Wild is rudely awoken by being repeatedly slapped with the flat side of a sword. He opens one eye and bares his teeth, but the annoyer—a blue moblin with half of one ear missing—grunts loudly and motions for him to get out of the hammock.

 _Like hell_ , Wild thinks, rolling over and pointedly dismissing the threat by showing his back. He has every intention of going back to sleep when he’s slapped by the sword again—this time much more forcefully, and with an accompanying snarl from the moblin. 

Wild sits up, glaring at the creature defiantly. Once more, the moblin gestures for Wild to get up. And once more, Wild refuses to. When the moblin raises his sword again, Wild throws himself forward. It might’ve looked cool if he hadn’t gotten tangled up in the hammock, but he still manages to deftly twist the sword out of the moblin’s grip. 

When Wild stands up with the weapon, he marvels at how natural it feels to hold it. As though he’s wielded swords in the past. Then, marveling done, he throws the sword straight at the moblin’s head.

Needless to say, it is a long time before he’s welcome back at that particular camp again. 

There’s a merchant with an enormous, beetle-shaped backpack who always seems to be one step ahead of Wild’s travels. Wild has _all sorts_ of theories about the guy—everything from teleportation to clones to the possibility that maybe Wild’s hallucinating him. But no, he sees other travelers talk to the merchant often enough that he’s forced to admit the guy is at least real.

Is he stalking Wild? Is Wild unknowingly stalking _him?_ It’s bewildering, and no amount of critical thinking brings Wild closer to understanding.

Wild follows the merchant one day, determined to get to the bottom of the situation. He readies himself for some grand reveal, like a transformation or secret mode of transport. But the merchant just… walks. Slowly. With a lot of grunting from his heavy backpack, no less. It’s insanely boring to watch. Despite the tediousness of the merchant’s efforts—or maybe in spite of it—he also always seems to miraculously avoid monsters **.** The timing of the near misses is absolutely mindboggling. More than once, Wild is forced to stop and stare in disbelief.

At one point, while traversing the path through Tanagar Canyon, Wild contemplates pushing the merchant into a ravine and taking all his stuff. He gets so caught up in the pros and cons of the possibility—namely owning an enormous backpack and all of its potentially exciting contents versus the moral consequences of pushing a weird, possibly-teleporting, possibly-omniscient merchant to his death—that he’s spotted. 

“Hey, there!” the merchant calls, waving excitedly.

Feeling like he has no choice, Wild approaches. 

“I’ve seen you around before, but I don’t believe I’ve made your acquaintance. The name’s Beedle, but you can call me—Actually, let’s just stick with Beedle.” 

“Wild,” he whispers in reply.

“I suppose it is!”

Wild shakes his head and points to himself.

“Ohhh, neat! Nice to meet you, Wild!” The merchant wipes sweat from his forehead and lets out a loud _whew._ “Hot, isn’t it? I gotta say, you surprised me! I hadn’t realized there were other travelers nearby, then suddenly there you were, practically right behind me!”

Wild tries to smile, but it feels more like a sheepish grimace. Thankfully, Beedle doesn’t seem to notice or care.

“Where are you heading?” 

Wild shrugs. He’s never been this way before, and he’s not about to give the merchant a head start to… wherever he might go.

“Ah, a wandering soul!” Beedle concludes, hoisting his backpack higher. “That must be liberating. Myself, I’m going to cut across to Rito Village to sell some of my wares.”

Wild wonders if that’s supposed to be a challenge. If he turns around right now and aims for the nearest stable, will Beedle already _be there?_ Will he claim to have finished his business in Rito Village? The very idea makes Wild’s skin crawl.

Before he can do something drastic—like push the merchant over the cliffside after all—Beedle hums thoughtfully. 

“If you truly have no destination in mind, could I make a suggestion? You seem like a… free spirited kind of guy”—and here, Beedle looks him up and down pointedly, which Wild thinks is entirely unfair from a guy in a crop top and bowl cut—“so I bet you’d love to see a dragon!” 

All suspicion vanishes without a trace. Wild’s eyes widen in anticipation, and he nods rapidly.

“Right, thought so! Check out the Tabantha Great Bridge. According to legend, a humongous dragon named Dinraal flies under the bridge around sunrise. I’ve never seen it myself, but I hope to one day.” 

A dragon. An actual dragon! Wild wonders if he’ll be able to touch it. Maybe he can even _ride_ it! Now there’s an idea, probably the best idea he’s had in at least a week. Depending on how high the bridge is, he can plan a jump—

“I’ve even heard it said that Dinraal is cloaked in fire!”

Okay, so maybe not. Wild will make that decision when he sees the dragon for himself. He points further down Tanagar Canyon with a questioning look. 

Beedle nods. “Yeah, follow the trail south. The bridge is hard to miss, but I can mark it on your map if you’d like.”

Wild blinks and shakes his head slowly. 

Beedle looks him over again, taking in Wild’s unsheathed broadsword, single patchy knapsack full of pretty stones and (crushed) critters, and the distinct lack of other items. The merchant seems to come to a realization. “You don’t have a map?”

Wild shakes his head more firmly this time. 

“What? But you’re—do you really just _wander_?” At Wild’s nod, he places his hands on his hips and whistles. “You’re courageous, I’ll give you that! But this simply will not do.”

Minutes later, Wild finds himself sitting side by side with Beedle in some shade, listening attentively as Beedle points out different locations on a yellowed piece of parchment.

“Now, this map is outdated for sure,” Beedle tells him, adding a couple of geographical squiggles with a charcoal stick, “but it’s better than nothing. I’ve circled my favorite spots—places I’ve seen shooting stars, Goron fighting rings, even ghosts… I hope it serves you well!” 

Feeling a rush of fondness for the weird merchant’s generosity, Wild takes the map with care. He’s suddenly very glad he didn’t push Beedle into a ravine. He smiles brightly and bumps their shoulders together in thanks.

“Don’t mention it. Us travelers gotta look out for each other!” 

Wild is collecting eggs from a bird’s nest when a piercing scream interrupts the peaceful morning. 

“No! Leave us alone!”

Locking his legs around a tree branch, Wild hangs upside down in time to witness a couple of Hylian women being chased by three bokoblins. Both parties seem partial to screeches and inefficient leaps.

Wild wonders what the women are doing all the way out in these woods. They don’t look like traders, and they certainly aren’t equipped for treasure hunting or other risky adventures. He supposes it’s possible they’re simply traveling, but there aren’t any trails nearby. 

Thankfully, Wild’s curiosity is sated moments later when of the women accidentally drops her bag. 

“Leave it!” the other yells, pulling her companion by the hand.

“But the truffles!” 

After more screaming and bemoaning of the bag, they and their pursuers run deeper into the forest.

Intrigued, Wild swings to the ground. He toes open the bag and sees several dark, lobulated… things. They look like fungi. Naturally, he takes an experimental bite out of the biggest one. 

Oh. 

_Oh_. 

Wild quickly hides the bag behind a dense, thorny bush and gathers his few personal belongings. He needs to save those women—they’ll know where to find more of these truffles.

Wild’s minding his own business, swiping apples from prayer statues, when a woman approaches out of nowhere. Her body language is stiff and suspicious, but he’s willing to ignore that in favor of inspecting the odd yellow fruits she holds up.

“Can I interest you in some mighty bananas, stranger?” she asks, smiling too widely.

Mighty bananas, huh? The name isn’t familiar, but something about the fruits calls to Wild. He’s surprised to realize he can already anticipate how they will taste, the sweetness and mild tang. It’s sensory recall—the first real memory he’s experienced since waking up.

Suddenly giddy, Wild nods, eager to cook the bananas into as many dishes as possible even if the results are nasty.

His enthusiastic agreement seems to surprise the woman. Her eyes narrow skeptically, and she leans closer. “You have a certain aura about you,” she murmurs.

Wild shrugs, impatient to acquire the bananas and eager to get away from this awkward social encounter. He holds up a chunk of amber, hoping it’s enough to cover payment; when the woman gasps, he assumes it’s because she likes the stone.

But her eyes fixate on his hand.

“You’re—you’re the legendary Lord Shadowblight?” she splutters, cheeks beginning to pinken.

Shaking his head slowly, Wild gives her the most dubious expression possible. _Lord Shadowblight?_ As if he’d ever go by such an embarrassing title. Like, okay, edgelord.

But the woman starts smiling like her every dream has come true. “I know it’s you!” she declares, tears suddenly streaming down her face. “Your resurrection has been prophesied! All Yiga children are taught to recognize your mark.”

“Wait, what?” Wild whispers, but the woman is too caught up in her own monologue to care or notice. He stares at his left hand, at the black stain from the pit that has never faded. It looks like it always has.

“—believe I mistook you for a plain Hylian! There will be such rejoicing! Though, I’ll admit, your dark aura seems to have been tampered with,” she adds, wrinkling her nose. “At least the corrupted Sheikah tech on your back might be able to help.”

Startled, Wild waves both hands in denial, trying to put an end to this foolishness. Predictably, this has no effect.

“You must come with me to the Hideout! There’s so much to do!”

 _Red flag_ , he thinks, _abort, abort, abort!_ He begins to plan various exit strategies: everything from hitting her over the head (and stealing the bananas) to outright jumping off the waterfall behind him. But with a puff of smoke, the woman’s attire abruptly changes to ugly red spandex and a creepy white mask, as if the situation wasn’t weird enough.

 _Huge fucking red flag,_ he mentally yelps, calling on Big Grouch’s more memorable lines to begin a litany of nervous curses.

“Master Kohga will undoubtedly reward me for bringing you home! He has spoken of your return with nothing but devoutness. If we depart now, we’ll arrive within a week.”

Slowly, as though sudden movement might startle the woman into action, Wild points a thumb over his shoulder.

“Oh, that’s right, you probably have supplies to fetch,” she reasons quickly. “Like, maybe clothes? Why _are_ you dressed in only underwear?”

Wild stares. She stares back. A restless cricket chirps.

The world is full of crazy people, Wild concludes ten minutes later, hauling ass through Bronas Forest. His pursuer sounds like she’s sobbing and laughing at the same time. He doesn’t dare glance over his shoulder to see how close she might be.

Thank the goddesses he can run fast. 

Zoras and Hylians aren’t the only non-“monsters” Wild meets during his travels.

The mountainous regions are home to the Gorons Beedle told him about. It takes a lot of sweaty effort—and a lot of crunchy lizards—to reach the Goron settlement, but Wild thinks the hassle of the trip is worth it. Between the hot springs and the canons and the boiling geysers, he has a _lot_ of fun. The cave system just outside the city provides another layer of excitement, its twisting, lava-riddled depths like a maze just begging to be explored. Wild learns to love Goron Spice, even if he cries the first few times he cooks with it.

It doesn’t take long to realize that hanging out with Gorons is a quick way to wind up with chipped teeth, smarting bruises, indigestion, and a newfound fear of hugs. But still, everything is great.

Until he sees the enormous mechanical salamander.

Seeing it fills Wild with dread. He understands the threat it represents to the Gorons, the wealth of bitter history. But something about the beast makes his heart skip and his back ache, and he swears he can feel…

Coldness. And rapacious cruelty.

Wild watches the salamander until he begins to shiver. Then he departs, and knows he will never come back.

Weeks later, Wild spies a very large bird holding an accordion. Hungry from scaling cliffsides all day, Wild can’t help but envision sauteed chicken over fresh wild rice. His mouth waters as he plans a simple attack.

Unfortunately, dropping a large rock on the bird doesn’t go over well. Wild ends up getting pecked on the head quite viciously.

Two concussions later, they exchange names and forgiveness. 

On the outskirts of Eldin Canyon, Wild meets a Gerudo named Ramella, and he thinks she might be the most beautiful person he’s ever seen. She towers over him, all muscle and bronze skin and sharp, knowing eyes. They trade stories over a bright campfire while Wild attempts to make curry pilaf for the first time. The conversation is easy, full of silly anecdotes and good-natured teasing. She doesn’t seem to mind that Wild speaks in whispers and in gestures more than actual words.

After dinner, Ramella digs through her backpack. “Here,” she says, holding out a complicated string of thin, golden chains adorned with delicate rubies. “This is for you. Consider it my thanks for dinner.”

Wild takes the chains and holds them up for inspection. While they’re very pretty, he’s not sure what to make of them. 

“It’s body jewelry. You drape it over your chest. If you’re going to show all that skin, you might as well have stunning accessories.” 

Wild lets out a breathy “oh” in appreciation. Holding the jewelry to his chest, he sends Ramella a questioning look and motions to himself. 

“Yes, I’m sure,” she tells him amusedly. “It’s not every day I’m treated to dinner by a mostly naked runt of a Hylian voe. This is the best night I’ve had since I left Gerudo Town.” 

Wild sticks his tongue out, then takes a moment to slip the chains over his torso. Once he has them fitted correctly, he turns in a slow circle. 

Ramella whistles appreciatively. “It’s a good look!” 

Before they part ways, Wild offers her a raw diamond the size of his fist—it only feels fair, since she gave him rubies. Ramella throws her head back and laughs.

“You’re far too young for me, little voe,” she tells him with a wink.

Wild’s not sure what Ramella means, but she takes the diamond anyway.

The first time Wild tries to catch a horse, he spends hours running around a field without success.

Despite extensive efforts to be sneaky, his second attempt earns him a solid kick to the chest that takes weeks to heal.

But one afternoon, when the air is rich with the smell of ozone, Wild stumbles across a lynel. Even just looking at the creature makes the fine hairs on Wild’s neck stand on end. With scarred, hulking muscle, a mane like white fire, and thick, sharp horns meant for gouging, the lynel is a creature that lives up to its terrifying reputation.

Naturally, Wild wants to ride it.

The lynel notices him almost immediately, tracking him with menacing red eyes. Despite the ferocity of its stare, the lynel doesn’t move to draw the massive sword across its back, and Wild doesn’t have to wonder why; there’s a faint resonance between them, the same curious bond that he feels from so many random creatures. He doesn’t know how these bonds came to exist, but he can march straight up to “monsters” without fear of injury—well, not _major_ injury; sometimes wizzrobes will zap him for fun because they’re mischievous bastards, and lizalfos have a nasty habit of smacking him with their tongues when they’re peeved. All in all, though, Wild can trust to walk away from these interactions mostly unscathed.

So it’s a _little bit_ of a surprise when his attempt to jump on the lynel results in yet another kick to the chest. He flies backward from the force of the kick, striking the ground with enough momentum that he tumbles down a short hill littered with rocks and scraggly bushes. It takes a while for him to catch his breath, daylight seeping into the intimate suggestion of dusk. 

Ribs broken and mouth full of blood, Wild stares up at the sky and resolves to try again some other time. 

Time passes, and life is pretty good. Wild becomes skilled at cooking, though he still enjoys eating things raw sometimes. He explores at random, taking care to avoid the castle and the creepy Guardians that remind him of the metal in his back. He visits Sidon ever so often, and he tries not to blush when he realizes just how _much_ he likes the Zora Prince. Occasionally, Wild gets chased by those weird Yiga people, but their stamina sucks and he can usually tell when they’re nearby because the air smells like bananas.

There are always new places to discover. Beachside towns, haunted caravans, towering mazes—you name it. He finds a neat looking place called Kakariko Village, but the inhabitants tell him that he’s a bad omen. They chase him out with torches and pitchforks, and he gets revenge by throwing courser beehives in their main thoroughfare the next morning.

Sometimes, Wild acquires cool weapons, swords and spears and magical rods worth their weight in riches. Inevitably, he breaks them, but they’re nice while they last.

Other days, the voices are too much, and he struggles to remember even small details about himself, but that’s okay. The world is a huge and exciting place, and even in the darkest hours, there are things to look forward to. He’s content.

It’s a warm, autumn day when everything changes.

Wild dons his Korok Mask the moment he sees a familiar yellow flower. The tickle of the leaf against his face always makes him feel safe, though he can’t say why. Wild has taken to wearing the mask frequently, amused by the funny little koroks and their games. Every time he’s gifted with a celebratory seed, he takes care to plant it somewhere nice, intrigued by the thought of what might grow from it. So far, none of the seeds have sprouted, but that’s okay.

Wild approaches the flower, unsurprised when it disappears with a puff of glittery smoke and reappears on a modest hilltop, swathed in bright, beckoning light. When he approaches, sunshine sparkles brightly in the rubies along his body chain. Other than his barbarian vambrace—modified to accommodate the large tooth he found on his first day—it’s the only accessory he wears with any regularity. He leans down, prepared to be greeted by a laughing korok—

And that’s when he hears the shrill cry of a bokoblin in pain.

Wild doesn’t hesitate, abandoning the flower to sprint toward the camp he passed earlier. He moves without thinking, trusting his connection to bokoblins to guide him there. It doesn’t take long, minutes at most. Yet by the time Wild arrives, he is but a witness to carnage past; dying bokoblins litter the campground, throats and bellies ripped open, fresh blood marking the mangled bodies like decorative capes. Their whimpering is feeble, piteous.

A large gray wolf circles the remaining boko, muzzle red and dripping as it snarls.

Wild instinctively looks around for the wolf’s pack members, but the animal is alone in its violent pursuit. Briefly, he wonders if it's rabid; he’s never encountered a lone wolf so brave, nor so aggressive. To attack a camp of bokoblins seems odd from a survival standpoint, especially since the animal is clearly well-fed. 

The remaining bokoblin, a juvenile red, hefts its spear with quivering hands. Its growl is weak and clearly forced. It fears the wolf.

Logically, Wild knows that it doesn’t matter if the boko dies; when the next Blood Moon rises, every slain monster will be brought back to life, in some form or fashion. But as Wild hears the resounding, fleshy pops of the dying pigs, he resolves himself not to hear one more.

Wild quietly knocks an arrow and takes aim at the wolf.

Inhale, focus. Exhale, steady. Release. 

The arrow strikes with a slick crunch in the center of the wolf’s chest, causing the animal to stumble and yelp. It rolls back to its feet quickly, blue eyes landing on Wild with eerie intelligence. A second later, it dodges an attack from the remaining bokoblin and darts into the underbrush. 

Wild hesitates, glancing toward the trembling young pig. “Go,” he rasps, pointing in the vague direction of where he last saw a couple of moblins. 

The bokoblin whimpers, gaze lingering on the smoking remains of its friends. Finally, it nods and runs to find help.

Unsettled, Wild stares after the wolf. There’s a prickling under his skin, a sense of foreboding as unmistakable as ichor. He knows he should track the wolf, should make use of the resources it could provide. As much as Wild hates the idea of restrictive clothing, he’ll need a warm cloak for winter, and the fur around the wolf’s neck is thick enough to resemble a mane. If he dries and salts the meat, Wild should be able to get several meals out of the animal. The teeth and claws could probably be sold or used in elixirs. It makes _sense_ to go after the wolf… Yet something tells him not to.

Absently, he scratches the stain on the back of his hand. Clouds slowly roll across the sun, threatening rain, and still he deliberates.

 _Don’t be a coward_ , Wild scolds himself finally. _It’s just a wolf._ Huffing, he slips his bow across his shoulders and grabs a pot lid and one of the dead bokoblin’s swords.

Even without clear paw prints to follow, it’s easy to track the animal by the blood trail it leaves; bright red spots wind through the dense foliage as though the animal struggled to run straight. Wild is impressed with how far the wolf manages to travel despite its injury. After several minutes, he spots a smear against a large pine tree, thick and dribbling, and he knows the wolf must be reaching its limit.

As the sky darkens with thunderclouds, Wild hears growling interspersed with yelping. Then, the sound of a man groaning, followed by several raised, alarmed voices all speaking at once.

“Twilight?” someone blurts, sounding shocked.

“He’s hurt! Does anybody have a potion?”

“What the hell happened? _Wolfie_?”

Had the wolf come across travelers? Is it attacking them now? The voices sound Hylian, and Wild knows most Hylians are poorly capable of defending themselves. He breaks into a sprint, hoping he isn’t going to find yet another scene of pointless violence.

There’s a clearing ahead, an area where the trees thin out. Wild can see a flurry of movement as the Hylians react to the attack. Hopefully, the wolf is too injured to do much at this point. Prepared to put the violent animal down once and for all, Wild charges forward—

Straight into the midst of eight startled warriors.

The first thing Wild notices—besides the fact that they’re armed to the teeth, holy shit—is that they all faintly resemble each other. Sure, there are some variations in age and exact hair and eye color, but overall it’s like looking at some creepy clone cult, and Wild does _not_ fail to notice that he meets the basic criteria.

The second thing Wild notices is that one of the warriors is on the ground, bleeding heavily from an arrow sticking out of his chest. The location of the wound is… eerily similar to where he shot the wolf. Who is, of course, conspicuously absent, if one doesn’t count the large gray pelt clasped at the wounded guy’s shoulders…

 _Oh fuck_ , Wild thinks in Big Grouch’s voice, lowering his rusty sword and pot lid in an effort to look a little less aggressively deranged.

Predictably, the Hylian warriors startle at Wild’s sudden appearance. Metal hisses from the mouths of scabbards, and two of the warriors move to flank him wordlessly. It’s a coordinated reaction, dangerous.

The stain on Wild’s hand begins to itch, though his attention is focused on tracking these people. This was a mistake. The wolf is a person? Had the wolf _always_ been a person? That’s—crazy, right? He takes a breath, prepared to speak up in defense of himself even if it hurts, but he’s cut off by a slim warrior with pink in his hair.

“Who the hell is this?” Pinky asks with a steady scowl, leveling a vibrant orange sword at Wild. He looks Wild up and down as though his attire is personally offensive. “An enemy?”

Wild starts to shake his head, but everyone is distracted by the man with the arrow trying to sit up. One of the younger travelers— _plain green tunic, shaggy brown hair_ , Wild’s mind anxiously tries to categorize—pulls his injured fellow into his lap. “Don’t move, Twilight.” 

The injured man— _Twilight?_ —shakes his head and coughs. Blood dribbles down his chin. “Def-defend—”

“You shouldn’t speak,” another advises quickly, casting Wild a wary look before turning to press a blue scarf to the edges of the arrow wound. There’s a tightness around Scarf’s eyes, a bleak recognition for the severity of such a situation. His voice is calm and steady when he says, “Save your breath. Time, fairies?”

Wild isn’t sure what time has to do with fairies, but the oldest warrior, armored and tattooed, shakes his head. He has placed himself between Wild and Twilight, his hand resting on the pommel of his still sheathed sword. His expression is cold, and his single eye focuses accusingly on the bow across Wild’s shoulders.

“A hunter?” One Eye asks quietly, doubtfully. There’s something disarmingly ancient surrounding his man, something malingering and ageless in the colorful lines marking his face.

Nausea stirs in Wild’s stomach. He swallows, mouth suddenly dry, and tries not to slump under the strange prickling across his skin. Something is wrong. Something is _wrong_. He should’ve listened to his gut before, should’ve never gone after the strange not-wolf. But when he takes a small step back, he glimpses white in his periphery—one of the warriors mirroring him, step for anticipatory step. He flinches, but dares not look away from the rest of the group.

Twilight sucks in a wet breath. There is a blue tinge to his lips. “D-def…ended… b-boko,” he gasps, staring directly at Wild.

Immediately, the other warriors tense, focusing on Wild with expressions ranging from appalled to suspicious. Wild takes another step back in response, gripping his pot lid tightly. There’s a rush building in his ears, a whirring like pressurized wind through a tunnel. He grinds his teeth together.

“Defended? Are you sure?” the shortest one asks—and when the hell had he gotten so close?

Twilight nods weakly, then drops his head back in Shaggy’s lap. Shaggy tentatively reaches for the arrow, then stops himself, chewing on his lower lip with a regretful frown.

“Whoever he is, don’t let him leave,” Scarf orders, standing up. He draws his sword, and his fingers are red with Twilight’s blood.

“What the fuck are we supposed to do about Twilight?” the youngest asks anxiously. His cheeks are still round with baby fat. “If we don’t find a potion or fairy soon—" He cuts himself off with a guilty look.

Wild tastes bile in the back of his throat. “Didn’t know,” he tells them, but the words fall short, a whisper behind his mask. The pressure is getting worse, making him feel hot and too tight in his own body; like a bloated animal left in the sun, about to burst. His head begins to throb. And for a moment, Wild imagines he can hear drums.

_Thump… thump… thump…_

Twilight begins to squirm, stretching out as he instinctually fights to breathe. His stomach contracts with each wheezing breath, expression veering toward panic.

With a grim, low curse, One Eye kneels by Twilight’s side, taking one of Twilight’s shaking hands in both of his. “Hey. Twilight,” he says gently. “Link. Focus on me. Just focus on me. It’s going to be okay.”

A lie. They all know it’s a lie. Twilight’s lungs are compromised—he’s drowning in his own blood.

Pinky abandons his scowl and suddenly overturns a bag. An impressive collection of rings spills across the ground, and he searches through them hurriedly.

Twilight’s returning grip on One Eye is white-knuckled, desperate. His heels dig into the dirt, body seizing tightly. He tries to speak, and his words are lost under a bloody gurgle.

One Eye lowers his forehead to Twilight’s, squeezing his eye shut. “Shh. We’re with you. It’ll be okay.”

Shaggy’s eyes are wide and unseeing as he stares into the middle distance. He cards his fingers through Twilight’s dirty hair.

“There has to be something,” Babyface insists. Scarf places a hand on Babyface's shoulder, but his gaze falls on Wild, assessing and flinty. 

Twilight’s struggles become weaker.

“Okay,” Shaggy says, apropos of nothing. “Okay.” He leans around One Eye and, with a strength and ruthlessness belied by his soft features, yanks the arrow free from Twilight’s chest. A squelching crunch accompanies the gesture. Twilight manages to muster enough breath to whine in response, dog-like and wretched.

“Hyrule!” One Eye snaps in disbelief, but Shaggy ignores him. His hands begin to glow. He frames the gushing wound in Twilight’s chest like he can hold death at bay, a rose-colored silhouette, mystical and suffusive.

Pinky looks startled, rings held uselessly in his grasp. “Hyrule? Is that—?”

But Wild barely notices what’s happening around the dying man, too focused on the overwhelming hum in his head. A foreign whisper lands on the edge of his thoughts. 

Wild clutches at his chest, his neck, his hair, scratching. He shivers in place, looking for the source of this sore-like discomfort, this familiar malaise. Those who aren’t gaping at the unnatural scene on the ground are watching Wild closely, muscles tense for the possibility of violence, weapons eager to be wetted.

He takes another step back, and his movement is mirrored again by the only warrior who has yet to speak. That white streak in his periphery draws him in, pulls his attention like some terrible, magnetic force. He moves as though in slow motion, feeling sweat on his skin, the drag of every breath, the heavy simplicity of his pulse.

Wild turns to face the warrior in the white cape, and that’s when he sees it, the source of the awful, invasive murmur: the sword with the indigo guard.

Everything blurs. 

_Y O U . . . W H A T B R I G H T N E S S O F S P I R I T, T O O V E R C O M E S U C H T W I S T E D M A C H I N A T I O N S_

“No,” Wild croaks, hunching over from the weight of this fearsome presence, from this unfathomable entrapment of destiny’s siren song. He doesn’t notice the warriors shifting around him, doesn’t see the way they look at him—like he’s a madman gripped by fervor.

 _Stop_ , Wild begs, trying and failing to put up mental walls, finding only dissolution in his mind. His efforts yield disintegration. _Please, please stop. Leave me be._

_M Y F A T E I S T I E D T O Y O U R S . . . I A M T H E V O I C E O F T H E B L A D E T H A T S E A L S T H E D A R K N E S S . . . A N D Y O U A R E T H E H E R O C H O S E N T O W E I L D H E R_

_No,_ Wild insists, struggling to think straight, struggling to hang on to his consciousness. _I belong only to myself. My life is what I make of it! I am not your pawn!_

_D E A R H E R O . . . W E A R E N O N E O F U S W I T H O U T R O L E S . . . Y O U C A N N O T E S C A P E Y O U R S_

Wild feels fractured. It’s getting harder to separate himself from the vastness of the sword’s influence. The pressure is building and building and building. His hand _burns_. 

Y O U H U R T B E C A U S E Y O U A R E D I V I D E D . . . Y O U W E R E N E V E R M E A N T T O H A R B O R D E M I S E’ S L E G A C Y

The sword’s voice is louder than anything he’s heard before, inescapable in a way Big Grouch and Princess Light have never been. Echoing and overwhelming, it plucks at him like a bird perusing carrion. 

_Enough,_ Wild implores, dizzy with tunnel vision. He bites the inside of his cheek, digs his toes into the dirt—anything to steady himself against this private onslaught. _Leave me be!_ _I can’t do this!_

_Y O U C A N . . . Y O U A L W A Y S D O . . ._

_No!_ he screams, and it's as though a vein is severed. Shadows erupt from Wild’s hand and spine like creeping ivy, cascading tendrils that pulsate with Malice. As the darkness spills forth, the voice is finally pushed back. And Wild is left to shudder like a man starved for space, aching and unwhole but finally _himself_.

 _Never again_ , he thinks savagely, teeth bared behind his mask. _Never again_ _will I lose myself to someone else’s expectation._

With a painful howl, he launches himself at the sword.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _ugly crying_  
>  anyway lmao here's 11,000 words, please let me know if you enjoyed this monster


	5. The Struggle Itself

Like a dowsing pendulum turned toward the heart of bedlam, Wild’s charge is unwavering. He loses himself to the rush of adrenaline, fingers curled tightly around the hilt of his chipped blade. The barbarian vambrace on his arm feels more appropriate than ever. Homed in on the indigo sword, on the newest threat to his autonomy, he almost doesn’t notice Scarf’s interception until it’s too late.

With a grunt, Wild ducks, barely avoiding a swipe meant to decapitate. Strands of blonde hair drift to the ground. Scarf’s expression is coldly determined as he closes his guard; he steps closer to White Cape, who frowns but doesn’t otherwise react.

Before Wild can retaliate, he glimpses colors drawing near—the heralding of another opponent. He half-turns and raises his sword to block a straightforward attack from Shorty. Using his strength to his advantage, Wild keeps pressure on their locked blades, then delivers a kick to Shorty’s stomach. The Malice streaming off Wild singes Shorty’s bright tunic.

“Four!” Scarf yells as Shorty doubles over with a wheeze. Wild quickly cartwheels away from them, grabbing a handful of dirt as he does. He looks around at the others, forced to momentarily give up the indigo sword as he tries to identify a tactical maneuver or a trap. A reason for the numerical code.

Before he can, Scarf is on him again, blade singing. Wild raises his pot lid to block the attack, and his arm shakes painfully from the force of the blow. Without giving Scarf a chance to strike again, Wild throws the dirt at his eyes. Predictably, Scarf yelps and steps back, squinting through the discomfort. Grimly satisfied behind his Korok Mask, Wild prepares to go on the offensive—only to be forced to parry a slash from Babyface.

One on one against the kid, Wild has no doubt he would take the upper hand; as it stands, the fight is a harsh and unforgiving lesson in multitasking. He attempts to track the others as he trades blows with the Babyface. There’s a rose-colored flurry of movement around Twilight; Shorty moves toward Scarf to play support; and White Cape slowly circles Wild—quiet and perfectly timed, like… like someone Wild once knew.

For a second, he vividly remembers a wide, shark-like smile. The sound of wooden chimes stirring in the wind. An inverted eye, sightless yet imposing.

Pain snaps Wild back to reality. A shallow slice from Babyface’s blade blossoms across his hip. Wild leaps to the side and tries to bash the pot lid against Babyface’s head, but the kid dodges. As Wild presses forward, a high-pitched growl crashes through his mind. He stumbles, and sword and shield fall from numb fingers. His vision becomes swathed in black spots. On the fringes of his awareness, crashing like the frothy end of a waterfall, Big Grouch rails.

_…her impudent disregard for timelines! She would rather have you fractured! Better a broken fucking spirit than a corrupted one. Fight her! Fight…_

Her…? Wild shakes his head, trying to dispel Big Grouch. The indigo sword—where’s the sword? Where’s White Cape? He turns in a quick circle, ignoring the way the world lurches. His own breathing sounds too loud in his head. His pulse feels thready.   
  
Babyface darts back in. Against a weaponless and disoriented enemy, he rushes his footwork, caution abandoned in favor in success.

 _Foolish_ , Wild thinks, deflecting the blade off his vambrace. He jams his foot between Babyface’s legs, then pivots behind him while shoving. As Babyface loses balance, his necklace—a tacky looking butterfly—dangles invitingly. Wild grabs the leather cord with both hands and _pulls_. Babyface grasps at his throat with one hand and slashes backward with the other, but Malice enshrouds his efforts. Wild pulls tighter, feeling the cord cut into his own fingers, aiming to crush the kid’s trachea since there isn’t enough time for strangulation. It takes mere seconds for Babyface’s cheeks to turn an interesting shade of purple, and spittle flies from his mouth as he gags.  
  
There’s a loud, gusty whoosh, and suddenly Wild’s Korok Mask is on fire. Gasping, he leaps back and rips away the mask—and like an actual leaf exposed to flame, it curls in on itself, blackening as it dies. Wild’s exposed face stings lightly. The air grows dense with the smell of singed skin and hair.

Pinky glares at him, a glowing red rod grasped in one hand. His sword hangs sheathed at his back. He keeps the rod held high as he runs to check on Babyface, who coughs and splutters on all fours. “You okay?” Pinky asks brusquely, never taking his eyes off Wild.

Babyface holds out a single thumbs-up rather than answering. Bruising and Malice scald are already evident around his neck.

Wild snatches his sword and pot lid from the ground, then risks a glance toward the tree line. If he runs now—

 _Behind you!_ Princess Light abruptly yells, voice echoing with mystical strength. Wild turns without thought, raising his sword—just in time to cross blades with White Cape. He stares, wide eyed and winded, as White Cape considers him coolly in return. The indigo sword is there, it’s _right there,_ and suddenly Wild doesn’t know what to do about it. His chest begins to tighten, anxiety bleeding into genuine fear. He has nothing to draw on, no memories or experience for this, just a primordial urgency not to succumb to the ancient power within that weapon.

The black mark on Wild’s left hand is interrupted with light, an eddy that shines subtly. Wild assumes it’s an aftereffect of Princess Light’s influence, albeit one he doesn’t understand. But seeing this, White Cape appears to hesitate. Dark blue eyes pin Wild down, doubtful yet questioning. He seems indifferent to the corruption dripping from the expansive scars across Wild’s throat and face.

Then Babyface starts coughing again, and that hesitation slips away like it never existed. Blades flashing, their fight begins with vigor.  
  
White Cape is _fast_. He moves like the indigo sword is an extension of himself, confident and graceful. There’s a gentle halo around him—an antithesis to Wild’s rippling darkness. If Wild weren’t fighting for his life, he might have admired it.

The passage of seconds is soon announced by the kissing of steel. Wild propels himself off a fallen log, striking at an angle. White Cape moves fluidly with the attack, then spins in a counter. When that fails, White Cape slashes, then jabs, then slashes again; he gives no opening, effortlessly flowing from one stance to the next.

Try as he might to avoid it, Wild feels himself being slowly forced back—forced closer to Shorty and Scarf, who hover in the periphery like keese in sight of blood. Wild is forced to admit that he’s outmatched. He finds himself on the defensive without reprieve. The next time he uses his pot lid to block a heavy strike, the iron cracks.

Another thrust, another rushed parry. Wild misses a chance to counter. He abandons form, focusing on defending against a barrage of strikes. Eventually, his pot lid shatters, and two of his fingers are broken from the impact. Still, he fights, desperation fueling his agility, anger fueling his strength, fear fueling his perception. He’s not sure what fuels the darkness, but it doesn’t matter.

The indigo sword descends, a violent declaration. And Wild can’t keep up.

Malice parts beneath the blade’s edge with a shrill, anguished screech. Still the indigo sword falls, splitting the skin on Wild’s chest with all the tenderness of a lover scorned. His body chain is cut in half; rubies spill across the ground in a mimicry of blood, and that, too, soon follows.

Rather than pressing his advantage, White Cape gasps and nearly loses his hold on the indigo sword. Gaping, his stare travels from his blade to the seeping wound he created. He looks… shocked, and ashamed. “Fi?”

Wild grits his teeth and refuses to glance down, doesn’t want to know how badly he’s hurt. A daunting chill seeps into his bones, and for a moment he wonders if he’s bleeding out—but no, it’s the darkness receding. Tongues of Malice flicker, then dissipate. Wild is shortly left destitute of cover.

 _NO!_ Big Grouch bellows, thrashing for purchase in Wild’s mind. _That fucking sword! It’s the bane to all my efforts! Mark my words,_ hero _, I will never let you go. You are a blight from within my shadow._ _You belong to_ me! _You will always—_

The Malice vanishes with a weak gargle. Silence follows, and it is more absolute than Wild has ever imagined.

 _That was not my choice,_ he resents, clinging to bitterness lest he despair at one more thing being taken from him. One more thing being out of his control. Blood continues to stream from his chest. He tightens his grip on his weapon, refusing to acknowledge the pain, the evidence of his weakness. A lesson ingrained before his earliest memory has him shuttering all expression. Wild stares back at White Cape, blank-faced and wounded in every sense of the word, and knows he won’t die without first raising hell.

“Wait,” White Cape begins urgently.

But Wild is done listening. If White Cape won’t defend himself, all the better. Ignoring the warmth spilling down his front, Wild readjusts his weight and curls his sword arm, preparing to deliver a spin attack.

“Sky, move!” Shorty urges, seeing White Cape’s hesitance.

Wild isn’t about to give Shorty and Scarf a chance to get in the way. Centered, he bursts into motion, blade flashing. He does not expect the large, metal hook that suddenly sinks into the meat of his shoulder, though.

Momentum disrupted, Wild is sent roughly sprawling to the ground. His knees and side are scraped, and his ankle flares with enough pain to accompany the wound across his chest. But nothing compares to the agony of the hook embedded in his shoulder. Baring his teeth, he struggles back to his feet and traces the chain to its source—to One Eye.

Like a statue rooted to the ground, the oldest warrior stands impassive, gripping the hook’s handle. Behind him, Shaggy slouches over Twilight; the glow around his hands has faded, and he shakes with obvious exhaustion. Twilight is utterly still.

“Enough,” One Eye says darkly. “It’s time to put you down.”

“No, wait!” White Cape—Sky?—tells them. He holds out his free hand, as though trying to deescalate the situation. “Don’t hurt him! I think Fi recognizes him. I think… he might be this Hyrule’s hero.”

That word again. Another awful title he never asked for. Wild glares at Sky, then down at the hook. He needs to figure out how to pull it free without shredding his arm, and _fast_. Surrounded, bleeding heavily, and winded, he thinks it’s fair to say that the day has gone to shit.

“Are you sure?” Scarf asks incredulously, the same time Pinky bites out, “Of fucking course.”

Everyone looks to One Eye, as though awaiting his judgement. His expression, as stoic as it is, approaches skeptical. “Fine then,” he says after a moment. “We need more information. Capture him.”

Somehow, the possibility of being held captive frightens Wild more than the idea of dying. He yanks at the hook, his shoulder be damned, but a wave of sharp pain makes his vision go blurry. Shorty, Scarf, Pinky, and Sky all advance slowly, a couple of them switching out weapons. Wild transfers his sword to his non-dominant hand and stares One Eye down, ears twitching and pupils dilating in the throes of trepidation. If he can’t get the hook out of his arm, then he needs slack in the chain to have any chance of fighting back.

 _Bad idea_ , he thinks, even as he charges One Eye.

Wild manages to get just enough slack to dodge a boomerang thrown by Pinky, but then Shorty closes in, swinging a massive hammer toward Wild’s knees. Wild clumsily attempts to block with his sword, and the force of the blow shatters the blade. He throws the hilt at Sky’s head, smirking when it connects with a loud _thunk_. Shorty’s eyes dart to Sky in concern, then refocus on Wild with color-changing intensity. Sparing a quick prayer for his kneecaps, Wild leaps out of the way of a second hammer swing, but a tug from One Eye trips him. He stumbles forward on all fours, hearing Shorty close in behind him. Spotting a fallen, skinny tree branch, Wild grabs it.

“Easy,” Shorty tells him. “If you calm—”

Wild turns and smacks Shorty in the face with the tree branch as hard as he can, again and again and again. Before he can do any serious damage, One Eye yanks on the chain once more, and Wild is sent sprawling. Blood gushes anew, and his arm begins to feel numb. He vaguely wonders if he’ll lose it.

Blinking away sweat, Wild can only brace himself as Pinky—apparently _done_ with decorum—tackles him with a growl. Scarf quickly dives to assist him.

Wild _thrashes_ , swinging his trapped arm to use the chain as a blunt weapon before the line goes taut. Scarf tries to pin both arms while Pinky grabs his legs, but blood and sweat make Wild’s bare skin slippery.

“Grab him!” One Eye orders sharply.

“ _Where?_ ” Pinky snaps, looking a little manic. The distraction costs him; using Pinky’s hip as a propelling point, Wild pushes one foot to scoot himself further away, then kicks his other heel against Pinky’s crotch.

“Bastard,” Pinky wheezes, curling in on himself with a groan.

The sympathetic look Scarf shoots Pinky is kind of hilarious—or maybe Wild is just giddy with blood loss at this point, hard to say. Regardless, when Scarf leans over to pin his arms, Wild whips his head around and sinks his teeth into the unarmored crook of Scarf’s elbow.

“Ah! Damn you!”

Like a moblin with a bone, Wild doesn’t let go. Blood wells in his mouth, and he swings his hips up, attempting to lock both thighs around Scarf’s neck.

Of course, One Eye chooses that moment to remind him of the massive hook in his shoulder, and he’s lurched to the side. In order to avoid breaking his neck, Wild lets go of Scarf’s arm, though not without taking a fair bit of flesh. He rolls back to his feet, meeting One Eye’s gaze, glare for furious glare.

Sky rushes to Scarf’s side, temple bleeding. He perfunctorily presses a wad of cloth to Scarf’s arm.

“Good goddess,” Scarf mutters bitterly. He’s already staring at Wild again, determinedly assessing. “You’re _positive_ that’s what Fi said?”

“Well, she doesn’t really speak much anymore, but the impression…”

Wild stops listening. His focus is reserved for One Eye, to the immediate source of his entrapment. It’s now or never, he knows; exhaustion is settling in, sapping his strength as thoroughly as blood loss. And after the day’s intrusions, his head is aching, mind scraped raw. In contrast, One Eye is fresh, and his armor and stature promise a tough fight.

 _Bring it, bitch_.

As Wild sprints closer, he’s ready for the solid tug on the chain this time. He rolls with the pull, leaping up right in front of One Eye. Wasting no time, he slashes with the tooth on his barbarian vambrace. One Eye leans back, throat spared but chest plate impressively gouged.

One Eye throws a punch in retaliation. His gauntlet slices a gash across Wild’s cheek and knocks a molar loose. Enraged, Wild spits the tooth at One Eye’s face, viciously pleased by the spray of bloody saliva that lands. It’s even better knowing that some of the blood certainly belongs to Scarf. Inspired, he imagines biting One Eye’s throat, fantasizes about ripping out the man’s jugular—an attack to honor his namesake, to acknowledge all the panic and frenzy and disorientation of the last twenty minutes.

Bending his knees, Wild prepares to follow through on the savage thought when sharp pain flares in the back of his head.

 _Big Grouch?_ he wonders dazedly, staggering away one step. But no, there’s a bloody rock on the ground. He turns in a slow circle and spots Babyface, another rock in hand, just as One Eye tackles Wild to the ground.

The air is effectively knocked out of him from the impact. One Eye plants a knee in his back and yanks on both wrists. Wild thrashes weakly, snarling and snapping like an animal, but One Eye’s grip is unmerciful.

“Here!” Pinky says, quickly tying the end of a whip around Wild’s wrists.

Wild continues to flail. His right arm is almost entirely numb from the hook, but even so, he can hear when it’s abruptly popped out of socket. He opens his mouth to scream, but there’s not enough air to do more than wheeze.

“Quit moving, or I’ll dislocate the other one, too,” One Eye tells him ruthlessly.

And Wild…

He’s broken. He’s done. Like a deer gripped in the jaws of a lizalfos, he goes limp. As Pinky finishes tying his wrists, Wild closes his eyes and tries not to look as terrified as he feels. He begins to shiver, mentally and physically overwhelmed. One Eye does not lessen his grip.

When he blinks his eyes open, Wild realizes the other warriors have all moved to surround them. Without meaning to, he spots the indigo sword over Sky’s shoulder. Instantly, a buzz fills his head.

_H E R O . . ._

Groaning, he turns his head and pukes. Pinky leaps back with a curse, but One Eye seems unphased. Wild’s mind begins to shutter, unconsciousness creeping in. To the side, as though a mirror to Wild, Shaggy collapses sideways.

“Hyrule!”

“Quick, somebody—”

“Oh, Twilight…”

Wild breathes out slowly. He wonders if he’ll wake up again. If he does, who will he be forced to become?

Darkness closes in. As always, it is cold.


	6. A Need to be Opposed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to update, and if it seems a bit rough. I've gotten a lot of really upsetting news lately about the health of a few family members, and I just haven't had the motivation to write.

They rest, as well as any of them can. This is a different kind of freefall than Sky is used to. He finds he is not ready for it.

Across their hastily made camp, Hyrule sleeps curled on his side, features slack in exhaustion. Legend sits at his back, going through his belongings without any apparent intent. His hands shake faintly as he works.

Time settles nearby, still wearing his armor. He presses an ear to one side of Twilight’s bare chest and closes his eye in concentration. After several seconds, he listens to the other side as well.

“How’s he doing?” Warriors asks, deftly threading a curved needle.

Time doesn’t answer right away. He lays his fingers over the pulse point on Twilight’s wrist, then compares the rhythm to his heartbeat. “He’s stable, I think,” Time finally concludes. “He seems to be breathing comfortably, and I don’t hear any obvious fluid.” He gently presses on the new, pink skin where the arrow had been, testing the integrity of the scar tissue. “Hyrule saved his life.”

“From what, exactly?” Four asks quietly, helping to smear a cooling salve across Wind’s throat. His own face is lined with bruises and superficial scratches.

They all look over at the stranger, at the tempest responsible for such violence. A hero, apparently, though Fi stays quiet now. He lies on his back, hands newly bound with rope. There’s dry vomit in his long, tangled hair. His lack of attire makes it easy to see the damage done to him; his wounds map a bright constellation across his skin. Sky feels uncomfortable looking at them.

“Sky, what happened?” Time asks plainly. “You seemed to avoid the fight at first, and you faltered when you struck him.”

There’s no real judgement in Time’s voice. Even so, Sky feels a wave of guilt. He _had_ initially avoided the fight, watching from the perimeter as he struggled to understand the overlapping energies surrounding their assailant. He glances down at the Master Sword sheathed in his lap and traces his fingers across the hilt. Fi is utterly quiet now.

“I’m still not sure,” Sky admits. “At first, it was just this general sense of displacement. I know—I know he shot Twilight,” and here, he quickly looks to Time, expression heavy with apology. “But standing against him felt wrong.”

“He certainly didn’t feel that way in return,” Legend points out. “He seemed pretty determined to get to you, actually.”

Sky nods, cheeks warming. “Yes. I think he was drawn to the Master Sword. There was a—a connection between them, for a second. It was so fragile, I wanted to give him a chance. But… then my reluctance got you hurt.”

And it feels like the aftereffects of Demise all over again; too slow, too weak, too late. Sky’s failure to act culminated in suffering. His eyes fall on the vambrace they removed from the stranger, on the large, carnivorous tooth nestled there. It’s easy to recall how easily it carved a line into Time’s armor. Swallowing past his nerves, he forces himself to meet each of their stares, finally settling on Wind. “I’m so sorry.” 

Wind smiles, despite it all. “There’s nothing to forgive,” he says, voice raspy. “You followed your gut.”

Without looking up, Warriors lightly flicks Wind on the head: a reminder that he shouldn’t speak anytime soon. Wind swats at his hand.

“Was it the Master Sword?” Legend asks, straight to the point.

“I could feel Fi stirring. But it wasn’t until I cut him that she spoke to me. That weird darkness around him was pushed back.” He hesitates, then adds, “She told me that he was on a precipice “

“A precipice?” Four repeats. “What does that mean?”

Sky shakes his head. “I’m not sure. But—did you see it? On his hand? It was almost like the Triforce.”

Warriors reaches over and examines the backs of the stranger’s hands, careful not to touch the fingers that are swollen and purple. “I don’t see anything.”

“I saw the specks in his eyes,” Legend tells them. “The darkness wasn’t just surrounding him. It was part of him.”

Time nods solemnly. “The metal in his back. I don’t recognize it.”

Warriors grimaces as he uses a rag to wipe away the worst of the grime around the stranger’s chest. “I do, unfortunately. It’s Sheikah tech. The implications are… concerning.” He sighs quietly, considering the wound, then adds, “I’ve never seen it grafted into a person before. Nobody living, anyway.”

“Great, so we’re dealing with a freak,” Legend says dryly. “Also, can I be the first to ask: what the fuck was he wearing?”

“You mean what _wasn’t_ he wearing?” Four points out with a shake of his head.

Sky smiles half-heartedly. The stranger’s assortment of accessories had been… bizarre, to say the least.

“His mask reminded me of the koroks,” Wind chimes in.

Time leans forward to give Wind a long, pointed look. Wind stares back unabashedly at first, but as the seconds pass his ears droop contritely. Personally, Sky is thankful not to be on the receiving end of a look like that.

Satisfied that Wind will give his throat a chance to heal, Time directs the conversation back on track. “Despite the savage tactics, he displayed skilled form. Things only devolved as he became desperate.”

“He was formally trained. At least at some point,” Warriors agrees, sliding the curved needle through the stranger’s exposed pectoral muscle. Sky watches curiously as he ties several knots before moving along the length of the wound with a continuous pattern. His fingers are steady, though they quickly turn red and sticky. It is slow work.

Wind seems just as curious. After the fourth time Warriors is forced to dab away blood to see, Wind gestures to the fire and back to the wound.

“Cauterization?” Warriors clarifies. At Wind’s nod, he shakes his head and continues suturing. “Maybe if there was no other option, or if he was bleeding out. But burning tissue and blood vessels, especially in something this deep, would just prevent healing. It certainly wouldn’t close right. The muscle needs to be opposed, then the skin.”

“Careful, you almost sound like you know what you’re doing,” Legend drawls, words lacking their usual bite.

Warriors doesn’t reply right away. When he finally answers, his tone is casual. “I’ve seen my share of war injuries. Potions and fairies aren’t always available, like now. If you don’t learn basic field medicine, your comrades die.” He cusses softly when one of his knots slips. “Of course, this is just a temporary fix. And he’ll likely still go septic.”

Sky frowns and turns his attention to the stranger’s other wounds. His right shoulder appears to have taken the worst damage; the skin gapes like the open petals of a young flower, and the length of his arm is puffy and discolored. Sky supposes there’s not much to be done for it outside of magic, potions, or fairies.

“Another thing…” Time begins, looking tired. “The scarring across his face and throat—it looks old.”

“I thought so, too,” Sky tells him quietly. His eyes rove over the stranger’s features, recognizing youth beneath the grime and superficial disfigurement. The stranger can’t be more than twenty years old, if that. Which means those wounds were likely inflicted when he was a youth. The thought is disturbing, and it begs the same question that haunts the broken, unpopulated expanse of this Hyrule: what tragedy must have transpired?

Legend shifts where he’s sitting. “I was surprised to see that his blood was red,” he admits.

Warriors hums thoughtfully as he continues to work. “You mean, you thought he was infected? Makes sense, with all that darkness.”

“That, but also…” Legend sighs. “I don’t know. Part of me wondered if he was—is— _dark_ Link.”

Time’s head snaps up from cleaning his hookshot, and Sky notices that Four goes very, very still.

_Dark Link?_

“You’ve seen him too?” Time presses, leaving Sky to wonder just how many shared enemies his legacies have encountered.

Legend nods, expression grim. He opens his mouth to reply when Hyrule begins to stir.

“Where…?” Hyrule murmurs, blinking through the pull of unconsciousness. “Legend?”

“Right here,” Legend confirms, awkwardly patting Hyrule on the arm before pulling his hand back. “The fight’s over. You’re safe.”

“Twilight?”

Legend glances to the hero in question. “He’s okay. He’s resting. You really saved him, you know?”

Hyrule murmurs something nonsensical, eyes slipping closed once more. Some of the tension leaves his body as he falls back asleep. For a while, the only sound to follow is the gentle stirring of a breeze through the leaves overhead.

“I never knew he could use magic like that,” Legend mutters, and Sky doesn’t fail to hear an undercurrent of self-doubt. “Why hide that?”

“Maybe there’s more to his abilities than just healing,” Four offers, staring down at where his sword rests. “Maybe he thought we’d judge him for it.”

Wind scoffs, gesturing pointedly to Twilight. Sky assumes he’s referring to the obvious benefit of Hyrule’s power, but Time interjects.

“I won’t speak for Twilight, but there’s a complicated history behind ‘Wolfie’. One he should be allowed to share on his own time, if he chooses.”

“To change like that—there has to be dark magic involved,” Legend points out, though he’s careful not to sound critical, not when Time’s stare is so sharp.

“Have any of us been honest?” Warriors asks wryly. At the ensuing silence, he smiles, though there’s no humor in it. The stranger’s chest is nearly closed. “I, for one, am grateful to have allies with magical abilities. But this mission might be easier if we know more about each other.”

 _It’s hard to open up_ , Sky thinks. _But why? Aren’t we the people most likely to ever understand each other? To forgive each other?_

Without waiting for the silence to fester, Warriors ties off the last knot and trims the excess suture. “Ugly, but it’ll do. That shoulder, though—if we don’t acquire potions soon, Hyrule should give it a try.”

Legend immediately bristles. “Are you kidding? He literally exhausted himself saving one of our own. Why should he have to spend any more energy on an _enemy?_ The weirdo brought that on himself. Don’t punish Hyrule for it.”

Before Warriors can reply, it’s Four who speaks up, tone firm, “That should be Hyrule’s decision.”

Legend rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue. Warriors tuts under his breath, pushing his hair back and inadvertently smearing some of the stranger’s blood across his forehead. “Yes, you’re right. I’m only saying, the Old Man’s hookshot really did a number on the guy.”

“We were trying to avoid killing him,” Time points out. “He didn’t have the same compunction.”

“Oh, I’m not faulting you for it,” Warriors assures him. “The guy’s practically feral.”

They all study the stranger again. Sky wonders about his origins, how a possible Hero of Courage could apparently defend bokoblins. Maybe Twilight had been mistaken? The shock of being struck with an arrow—but no, he shouldn’t discredit Twilight’s perspective like that. But why _would_ the stranger have helped monsters?

“Is he the reason we’ve been brought together?” Four ponders out loud. “This Hyrule is so different from all of ours. We’ve been wandering for days, and he’s the first person we’ve seen. No towns, no travelers. Just ruins and monsters. It’s like this Hyrule is… empty.”

Sky doesn’t mention the fact that it feels more familiar to him than any of their worlds; the Surface, after all, had been largely undeveloped—a slice of wilderness cupped in nature’s flourishing palms.

Time hums noncommittally. “Perhaps. For now, at least we know civilization does exists here.”

Sky blinks and glances around as if he missed a town entrance.

It’s Wind who nods first, grinning slyly as he reveals a handful of rubies and a fine, gold chain. As soon as they all have a chance to notice, he quickly stashes them back in his pouch. He looks smug.

“Right,” Time says. “If there’s jewelry, then there’s a jeweler. Craftsmen indicate a stable population.” He pauses, then adds a touch wryly, “Somewhere.”

Four studies the length of the shadows around them. “There should be daylight for a couple more hours, but it looks like the weather might be turning. We should scout the perimeter if we’re staying here until morning.”

Warriors nods. “Any sign of medicinal herbs or fairies…”

“I know.”

Legend sighs abruptly as though taxed, then withdraws two gold rings. Both are topped with a single heart, red and orange.

“Here,” he says, gently tossing the ring with the red heart at Time. “Place this on Twilight—if it’ll even fit his beefy farm fingers.” His closes his fist around the second ring, scowling in the direction of the stranger, before muttering a quiet “whatever” under his breath and scooting closer.

“What do they do?” Time asks as he slips the ring over one of Twilight’s pinkies, placing trust in Legend without waiting for the answer.

Legend apparently notices, if his surprised yet pleased expression is anything to go by. “They speed up the healing process. That one’s better. Wind should probably have it afterward.”

“And you’re going to share the other with the mystery man? I’m surprised,” Warriors says, just short of teasing.

“Yeah, well,” Legend starts, glaring down at the stranger as he slips the second ring on one of his uninjured fingers. “Possible sepsis aside, that arm looks like it can’t wait for— _fuck!_ ”

The stranger’s eyes are open, and there’s clarity in the bright blue depths. He doesn’t move, hardly breathes. His face is ashen and expressionless, a portrait of leery anticipation.

“Ugh, creep,” Legend gripes, dropping the stranger’s hand and moving back to his spot next to Hyrule. The stranger tracks him, cranes his head to stare blankly at the ring on his finger, at the puckered line across his chest, then trails across the others. He avoids looking at Sky, just as he avoids acknowledging his other wounds.

Even with the others leaning closer toward Hyrule and Twilight, it’s easy to see that the stranger is surrounded. They observe him like a fish caught in a tide pool.

“Hey,” Warriors begins simply. The stranger flinches, but his face remains impassive. He looks to Warriors, waiting for more. “What’s your name?”

The stranger doesn’t answer. He stares, tense and scrutinizing, then looks away.

Wind uncaps a waterskin and moves closer, offering it without preamble. A glimmer of suspicion settles into the stranger, the first real emotion they’ve seen from him so far outside of the frenzy of battle.

“Water,” Wind assures him, risking Time’s grunt of disapproval. When the stranger narrows his eyes, Wind pointedly takes a long drink. He reoffers it with a hesitant grin.

This time, the stranger leans forward and allows Wind to pour the water past his lips. When he settles back down, Wind nods and moves away to give him a little space.

“Is your name Link?” Time presses.

No reaction. Not even a flicker of recognition at the name.

“Why did you attack? Do you work for Ganondorf?”

Silence.

“He spoke, right before the fight,” Sky says quietly. It feels a little bit like betrayal, which isn’t fair, he thinks.

“Could be deaf,” Legend offers, looking bored with the whole situation, though his hand rests casually by his sword.

“Fair point,” Warriors says. Leaning over so that his hands are in clear view of the stranger, he asks, _Do you understand sign?_

The stranger’s fingers twitch, bound hands lifting slowly. For a moment, Sky thinks that’s it—they’ll finally be able to reach an understanding.

The stranger flips Warriors off with both hands, broken fingers be damned.

Warriors looks entirely unimpressed, and Legend makes this weird noise that’s part affront and part laughter while the rest of them just express quiet frustration in their own ways.

“This is getting us nowhere,” Four says, standing up. “I’m going to take a quick look around.”

Sky shifts where he’s sitting and can’t help but notice that the stranger shudders faintly in response. “Maybe I should join you.”

Four frowns down at the stranger. “I don’t know, with Twilight and Hyrule out...”

“We can handle things here,” Time assures them. “I don’t think you should scout alone, not when this land is so unknown to us.”

“Alright then.” Four nods to Sky, and they depart.

Despite the somber circumstances, it’s difficult not to admire the lushness of the woodlands around them. Squirrels and birds offer gentle respite from the absence of conversation. Sky is content to let Four lead the way; the further they walk, the more he finds his attention being drawn to the north, as though caught in some push-pull between the Master Sword at his back and a daunting unknown. But there are too many trees and hills to see what lies far ahead, and time is limited.

“What do you make of all this?” Four asks suddenly.

Sky takes a moment to answer. “I trust Fi, even if I don’t understand everything. I think I’ll wait to make any sort of judgment until I know more.” He glances up, seeing storm clouds begin to furl in earnest. “What about you? Are you okay?”

Four gently rubs his cheeks. “Just scratched and bruised. Nothing that won’t heal quickly.”

“I meant—back in camp, you looked uncomfortable when Legend mentioned this ‘dark Link’.”

Four laughs lightly, awkwardly. “That’s—it’s not even the same thing. I don’t know why it bothered me.”

Sky blinks, waiting for clarification, but Four doesn’t seem inclined to offer any. He turns his focus ahead, embarrassed about his lack of tact. “Sorry, I’m not trying to pry. I guess I just have no context. You guys seem to share some experiences I’ve never had.”

Four offers him a smile, and it’s small but kind. “I know. Thanks for looking out for me.”

 _Have any of us been honest?_ Warriors had asked.

Sky is afraid he knows the answer.

The rest of their scouting is uneventful. By the time they return to camp, Hyrule is awake and nibbling on a strip of dried meat. He greets them with a sleepy wave. Sky only partially listens as Four recounts their findings to the group—small mammals, a river, steep hills, no signs of monsters. He watches the stranger instead, lying still and trapped, and is ignored by him in return.

“No change here,” Time says, and Sky can’t explain the sudden ribbon of unease he feels.

Thunder rumbles like the deep low of an awakening beast, and the first drops of rain begin to fall.


	7. Judgement From the Mouths of Monsters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so thankful for everyone's thoughtful and considerate comments! They really mean so much to me. A special thanks to turtleduckcrossing, who has patiently allowed me to ramble about this story when I needed help. You should check out her LU works if you haven't already! 
> 
> Also lmao originally this bullshit story was meant to be 4 chapters long, can you believe???????? I'm guessing it'll be 11 tbh. 
> 
> ALSO also feel free to say hi on tumblr; you can find me at gintrinsic-writing.

Wild has no clue what’s happening. Somehow, his familiarity with ignorance doesn’t make it any less intimidating.

His hands are tightly bound, and he’s been laid on his back next to a meager pile of wood like a pig about to be trussed. Despite the warmth of the evening, chills wrack Wild occasionally. His entire body _aches_ , but his right shoulder feels strangely numb. He spares it a single glance and has to swallow back bile at the damage he sees. Taking measured breaths, he cranes his neck to look at the puckered red line across his chest, then studies the ring on his finger—a healing item, Pinkie had said, and Wild can almost imagine a faint tingling sensation from the ugly orange heart.

He supposes it makes sense that they’re treating the worst of his wounds. The voice in the sword wanted him for something, after all, and a tool is only useful if it isn’t broken. He probably should’ve feigned unconsciousness, should’ve bought himself time without the cautious stares and bizarre questions, but it’s too late for that now.

So Wild waits, and he listens, and he tries to pretend he has even the barest semblance of control over the situation.

Scarf continues making weird hand gestures at Wild, expression exaggeratedly inquisitive.

“You’re wasting your time,” Pinkie says. Privately, Wild agrees with him.

“No harm in trying,” Scarf answers, carefully studying Wild’s face. There’s dry blood on Scarf’s fingers, thick along his nailbeds. Belatedly, as his chest stings, Wild realizes the blood is probably his, that Scarf must’ve been the one to close his wound. It’s funny, almost, except Wild took a mouthful from Scarf with the intent to _harm_ , and Scarf’s fingers were stained by an attempt to _help._

 _It doesn’t matter_ , he reminds himself. _You’re still a prisoner_.

Pinkie grunts, looking pensive. “How do you know sign anyway?”

Scarf’s gaze darts to One Eye and back so quickly that Wild nearly misses it, and the casual smile he turns toward Pinkie is entirely too smooth to be genuine. “Just something I picked up.”

Pinkie rolls his eyes. “Great story.”

“He doesn’t have to say,” Babyface admonishes hoarsely, features scrunched up in annoyance. Wild notes the obvious absence of that tacky butterfly necklace and wonders where it went.

“Wind, for the last time, give your voice a rest,” One Eye sighs.

 _Wind?_ Did nobody here have a normal name? More importantly, did this mean Wild really _did_ fit in with their weird group? It was a disconcerting connection. Also, he liked his nicknames for them better. 

“I know what I can handle,” Wind argues, and One Eye clearly holds back a retort. The obviousness of the silent dismissal makes Wind blush and scowl. 

And thank the goddesses, there’s _tension_ here. The whole group is ripe with it. Wild wonders how he can exploit this, the best ways to create fissures in these fragile bonds. If he can manipulate them into resenting each other, maybe he can escape—

Wild’s wandering stare lands on Twilight, and he can’t help but hesitate.

 _It was an accident,_ he thinks again, though he doesn’t regret defending that young bokoblin, doesn’t regret the unnecessary pain he spared it. _The voice in the sword attacked first. …Or did I?_

Wild studies Twilight, not even bothering trying to be subtle. Unconsciously, he finds himself mimicking the steady rise and fall of Twilight’s chest, the action almost calming. He thinks… he might feel relief, seeing Twilight still breathing. He’s not sure why.

One Eye shifts next to Twilight, clearly feeling protective, but Wild is saved from his critical focus by a surprised noise from Pinkie.

Shaggy—Wild thinks his name might be _Hyrule_ , which is… weird, but whatever—sits up slowly, blinking groggily.

“Take it easy,” Pinkie cautions him. “There’s no need to push yourself.”

Hyrule waves his concern away. His complexion is pale, but the curious gaze he turns on Wild is entirely clear. Wild suspects the guy is used to functioning on low reserves. “I think I’m really up this time.”

“How do you feel?” One Eye asks.

“Like an octorok took a shot at my head,” Hyrule answers with a wry smile. But his posture is a little tense, shoulders hunched defensively. “I’ll be fine. Always am.”

Pinkie leans toward him without making contact. The face he makes is awkward and—in Wild’s opinion—a telltale sign of emotional constipation. “Glad you’re okay.”

“That was some impressive magic,” Scarf adds. “What little of it I got to see.”

The tips of Hyrule’s ears turn pink. “Oh—thanks. Thank you.” He turns a hesitant look toward One Eye, then focuses on the new scar tissue decorating Twilight’s chest—the only evidence of the miracle he performed. “I hope he’s okay. I should probably check him over…”

One Eye holds up a hand, his smile small but genuine. “After you’ve had a chance to recover more. We don’t want you passing out again.”

If anything, Hyrule’s blush intensifies. “I won’t be a burden, I promise.” 

“You misunderstand. I’m grateful to you for what you did. And more than a little impressed.”

“Oh.”

It goes on like that for a short while, quiet praise exchanged for stilted acceptance. Wild is grateful not to be the subject of their attention. He risks closing his eyes for a moment, focusing inward. He can still sense Princess Light, can feel her gentle presence in the back of his mind, but that’s it. No pressure, no dark suffusion threatening to seize control, no warring static.

Just… silence. 

_Big Grouch?_ Wild calls quietly, probing where shadow used to be. There’s no answer, nothing at all. Wild wonders if Big Grouch will ever return, or if he even wants him too. But that’s stupid—he wants autonomy after all, right? Getting rid of a loud, violence mongering voice is a step in the right direction.

So why… does he feel so bad?

A moment later, Sky returns with Shortie, bringing that awful indigo sword with him. Shortie looks contemplative, attention somewhere else, but Sky looks over right away. Wild braces himself for more pain—for that needling demand for subjugation. He holds his breath until he’s forced to let go, waiting. Still, it never comes, and Sky’s attention shifts toward the others.

“No change here,” One Eye declares once they’ve settled down, as though the sky isn’t churning with bold machinations, as though Wild isn’t once again unfamiliar with his own mind.

The air soon becomes fraught with humidity and the pungent suggestion of ozone. Like the baying of a guard dog, it is a warning. Not for the first time, Wild tests the rope binding his hands, subtly shifting his wrists as he glances around. Pinkie frowns as thunder growls faintly in the distance, though the other warriors don’t react to the brewing storm. He wonders why.

“So, um… what happened?” Hyrule asks suddenly, staring straight at Wild. As quick as that, all eyes are back on him, and Wild forces himself not to fidget nervously.

“We’re still trying to figure that out,” Scarf answers. “Guy hasn’t said a word.”

Shortie frowns. “There’re too many unknowns. I don’t like how reckless this feels.”

“I agree,” One Eye says. “If he’s not willing to communicate, then we need to decide how we want to move forward.”

Wild bares his teeth, recognizing the threat for what it is. Rain begins to dampen his hair, and each cool drop is a poor counterbalance to the red-hot flush of his quickening pulse.

“We should prepare some kind of shelter before we talk about that,” Pinkie interjects. His aloof expression is belied by the tense line of his shoulders. “Unless you two found a cave or something on your walk.”

Shortie shakes his head. “Afraid not.”

“The branches around here are full,” Hyrule points out between bites of a snack. “We could fashion a cover easily enough.”

“Good idea, though you should probably rest,” Sky says, smiling kindly. Wild wonders how genuine the expression is. “There were vines growing on the side of some broken statue further back. They might be useful for securing the branches.”

Scarf brusquely rubs his hands together, using raindrops to ineffectually clean them. “I’ll go with you. Give me a moment to put my things away. Wind, Legend—watch the new guy.”

Tasked with guard duty, Wind and… _Legend_ exchange matching eyerolls. Next to them, Hyrule finishes his snack and frowns thoughtfully at Wild’s shoulder. On Wild’s other side, Shortie calmly surveys the trees for cover, and One Eye sits Twilight up against a log so he doesn’t inhale any rain.

They’re calm, largely unhurried. Individuals used to working in the elements, and clearly adaptive to functioning as a team. Seconds seep away, and still they remain indifferent to the darkening sky. A distinctive static fills the air. Thunder sounds again, closer this time, and Legend is the only one who so much as glances up.

And Wild suddenly realizes—these fools have _no idea_ how dangerous things are about to become. Skin tingling uncomfortably, he abandons all pretense of lying stoically. He pushes himself up on one of his elbows, gaze darting around the campsite. Most of the warriors are still armed, though a few shields and metal accessories have been thoughtlessly placed around bedrolls and packs.

Basically, they’re surrounded by conduits.

 _Fuck me running,_ Wild thinks, ignoring the way he can practically _feel_ the others observing his nervous behavior.

As if on cue, a spark ignites in Wild’s periphery. Then another, on the opposite side of camp. One Eye looks over sharply, frowning at the simple Hyrulean shield at his feet. “What was that?”

And Wild doesn’t care about repercussions right now, doesn’t care about anything other than getting away from so much metal. He scrambles to his knees, ignoring the sharp pain in his ankle and the way his stomach churns.

“Don’t even think about it,” Legend snaps, pointedly leveling a boomerang toward Wild. Wind shakes his head, giving Wild a _look_ , and orders, “Just chill.”

It’s easy to ignore them.

“Hey, guys,” Sky begins uneasily. He rubs a hand across the back of his neck, no doubt feeling the strange barometric shift. He and Scarf stand at the very edge of camp. “Something’s off. I don’t think we should stay here.”

Gusts of wind shake the trees, howling through boughs like some terrible demon. Wild’s frantic gaze falls on the indigo sword, relieved when he feels nothing at all. He looks at the others, all eight of them, and wonders what freedom may cost. Because if he times things right, if he’s careful… he might be able to use this inevitable disaster as a chance to escape.

His silence could very well condemn the others, though. Once more, Wild looks to Twilight, confused by what he feels. Twilight’s chainmail lays beside him, folded neatly by one of the others. A spark flits across the links.

 _It’ll be fast_ , Wild tells himself, _it’ll be painless, probably._ He forces himself to look away, forces himself to appear calmer. He’s been inadvertently caught in enough storms to recognize the static shift, to know lightning is mere moments away. Shifting his weight, he prepares to move.

What Wild doesn’t expect is to make eye contact with Shortie—to see concern and wariness and intelligence and spirit—nor can he explain away the sudden, overwhelming sense of shame that fills him, knowing that he’s about to let those qualities perish. 

Shortie holds himself still, clearly catching onto the fact that something is very, very wrong. The wind stirs his damp hair, muted gold locks beginning to drip.

Wild glances up at oppressive clouds, then shakes his head, internally warring with instinct. And finally, tongue heavy with reluctance, he warns, “ _Metal._ ”

Thankfully, Shortie seems to understand immediately. Eyes wide, he spins around to the others, already ridding himself of specific items. “It’s a lightning storm! Get away from anything metallic!”

The warning nearly comes too late. As the warriors frantically scramble to rid themselves of anything that might be a danger, the entire camp becomes wreathed in sparks. Each charge sounds louder than the last—a sensory countdown dangerously close to zero.

Wild knows he can’t afford to wait any longer. Taking advantage of the distraction, he darts around Wind and sprints toward the tree line, ignoring the sharp pangs in his ankle. There’s a surge of ionization, crisp and hair-raising. He sees One Eye lunge across Twilight, reaching for chainmail that practically glows with consecutive currents, just before time runs out.

Lightning strikes without remorse, deafening and blinding. In its destructive wake, the grass catches fire, and air currents carry sparks that twirl on thin tongues of flame. Wild isn’t about to waste the opportunity, doesn’t look back to see if any of the warriors are injured, or worse. Chaos at his back, he flees.

The path ahead is overgrown but familiar. Rainfall makes the ground slippery, and more than once he nearly trips. Wild takes gulping breaths, already more tired than he should be, and blinks through the spots that dance in the edges of his vision. Every jarring step reminds him of his wounds.

_Keep going. You can’t afford to be weak. Keep going!_

Ahead, there’s a bend in the path, then an incline before the Bridge of Hylia. If he can make it to the bridge, he should be fine. He’s familiar with the lizalfos that patrol there, and the camp beyond is usually teeming with bokoblins and the occasional moblin. They’ll be able to cut his hands free, then cover his retreat into the vast wilderness.

Of course, it can’t be that simple. There are sounds of pursuit, shouting and heavy footfalls between every rumble of thunder. Wild thinks it might be Scarf, but he doesn’t look back to check. He focuses on moving his legs, on breathing through dwindling stamina. Fresh blood begins to seep from his shoulder, and his chest _burns_.

“Stop!” he hears, and yeah—that’s definitely Scarf, and he’s _close_. Wild grits his teeth and keeps running, desperation overriding a looming feeling of helplessness.

But thankfully, the storm has hastened nightfall, beckoning forth what normally sleeps below; the ground ahead suddenly quivers, loose dirt spraying wide as three stalmoblins drag themselves upright. Wild doesn’t have time to wonder why he didn’t sense them; he darts between skeletal bodies with ease, trusting that they’ll be able to stall his pursuers. Orange, glowing eyes track him with interest, but he doesn’t stop to explain the situation, can’t afford to. Once he’s back on the path, one of the stalmoblins roars, and a clash of metal soon follows. Someone else—Shortie?—shouts something about a bow.

The stone arch of the Bridge of Hylia comes into view as Wild’s energy wans in earnest. He stumbles up the hill, limping badly and breathing harshly. The relief he feels at seeing the three familiar lizalfos is heady. Except… as he takes his first step onto the bridge, Wild realizes with a horrible sense of foreboding that he can’t sense the lizalfos. They’re there, they’re _right ahead_ , but he can’t feel their presences, can’t discern them from the rest of nature.

_Just like the stalmoblins. What does that mean? What’s happening to me?_

Wild hurries toward them anyway. The lizalfos are quick to notice, jumping up in alarm. The leader of the group darts forward soon after, and Wild assumes it is concern over his state that drives such serpentine speed.

He is barely able to dodge the spearhead aimed at his face.

“Friend!” Wild croaks in startlement, holding out his bound hands in a conciliatory gesture. Blood dribbles down his chest and arm. Like some macabre specter, he stands pale before them, his plight laid bare.

The lead lizalfos hisses aggressively in reply, and the others move to flank it. Their weapons are pointed at him, steady and true. Wild feels his relief spill away as though through a sieve. Below, choppy waves disturb Lake Hylia’s surface even as the storm overhead weakens. “You know me,” he insists, and the pain lacing each word is lost in the haze of his overall misery. He points to himself. “ _Friend._ ”

Wild risks taking another step forward, and all three lizalfos hop back. The leader scents the air, nostrils flaring and tongue flickering. Its large eyes swivel as it studies Wild, pausing on his wounds. It steps forward, coiling its body, and Wild forces himself to stay still despite every warning sign. The lizalfos tilts its head to the side, then tentatively licks a long line across his chest. The hiss that follows is quieter, less sure.

“I don’t know… what’s different,” Wild explains haltingly. “But I’m still me.”

His own words catch up to him, hitting him with the force of a hinox. And suddenly, he feels Big Grouch’s absence more than ever, feels the empty, gaping expanse where his terrible presence used to lie. And Wild is left to wonder: _I’m still the same person without Big Grouch, right?_

He has to be.

Except…

The smaller lizalfos exchange a glance, hopping side to side in agitation. They don’t look convinced.

Suddenly, the leader jumps back, hefting its spear. Wild has a split second to wonder if he’s about to be gutted when he hears Scarf and Shortie reach the archway behind him. Before he can turn, the lizalfos slices through the rope binding Wild’s wrists with a quiet grunt. It gives him a final, considering glance before hissing pointedly and turning away.

And Wild knows pain, knows it more anything, but this—this is a different kind of wound, one he has no defense for, one that cuts deeply and viciously in a place he can’t see.

He’s left alone; he’s surrounded by strangers new and old.

The lizalfos retreat to the other end of the bridge in a matter of seconds, giving up ground despite their territorial nature. Wild knows he’ll be stuck in the middle of a fight with no allies if he follows. Mentally reeling, he turns around just as Shortie and Scarf catch up, making no effort to hide his freed hands. He trusts that they won’t risk splitting up to go after the lizalfos, not when he’s their goal.

“What was that about?” Scarf asks, glowing rod raised defensively. He glances toward the other end of the bridge, clearly suspicious. “Are they getting reinforcements?”

Wild ignores him. Now that his adrenaline is wearing off, he’s aware of how much he has forced his body to endure. As he stands there, wavering slightly, he finds he doesn’t have the energy for resistance.

“All done?” Shortie asks quietly. There’s something almost understanding in his expression.

Wild nods, letting out a slow and painful breath. Shoulders slumped, he approaches, fully intending to go back with them. But as Wild draws close, Scarf suddenly clutches his good arm, grip tight. At first, Wild thinks he means to detain him, but Scarf’s wide eyes are trained on something in the distance. “Is that—the castle?”

Shortie wordlessly climbs onto the bridge’s stone wall, following Scarf’s line of sight. To the north, where the storm clouds finally begin to dissipate, Hyrule Castle looms in a haze of Malice. “I think you’re right,” Shortie confirms, sounding unnerved. “Something is enshrouding the spires. It almost looks like… what was around him.” He gestures to Wild, clearly hoping for an explanation.

Wild doesn’t need to look at the castle to know what they’re talking about; he’s gazed upon that swirling miasma more times than he can remember.

“Maybe this is why we’ve been brought together,” Scarf says thoughtfully.

As the rain dies down to a gentler mist, One Eye appears at the mouth of the bridge. He is no less intimidating without his armor, countenance stony. Frankly, Wild is a little shocked to see that he survived the lightning. “Are you two okay?”

“We’re fine,” Shortie assures him. “But—the castle.”

One Eye looks to where Shortie points, tensing when he sees it. “Well, that can’t be good,” he says tonelessly. “We’ll… figure out how to deal with it later, after we’ve regrouped.” He turns toward Wild, noticing the lack of rope. “What happened here?”

“I’m still not entirely sure,” Scarf admits, standing up straighter. “He interacted with some lizalfos, who fled, then he approached us. He seems… strangely compliant, all of a sudden.”

Four shakes his head. “I don’t think he’ll be a problem, not like before.”

One Eye frowns. “What makes you—” He quiets abruptly, ears twitchingly alertly. There’s a sudden whoosh from below, and the air becomes charged again. Only this time, the static isn’t caused by a storm. From within the churning depths of Lake Hylia, Farosh emerges; the dragon’s body glistens as it takes flight, streams of water sparkling with brilliant currents of electricity.

“Oh goddesses,” Scarf breathes in awe.

The air around Farosh crackles and shines, bright like the birth of dawn. Wild can’t help but stare with the others, feeling goosebumps across his skin. At least for a moment, there is something breathtaking to withhold—beauty and power without effort, evidence of something so far beyond himself.

“What is this place?” One Eye murmurs.

As Farosh breaches the lowest clouds, Wild tears his gaze away and begins walking—back toward Faron, back toward a complicated future. The others catch up quickly enough, forming a close, precautionary triangle behind him. He grabs a Hyrule herb in passing, ignoring their confused whispers when he eats the plant roots and all.

Well, he tries to, anyway.

“There was dirt on it,” Scarf points out. “Actual soil.”

“We’re not going to starve you,” Shortie adds.

Wild pauses and sighs loudly, indifferent to how dramatic he might sound. He turns around, facing all three warriors, who stare back with varying levels of concern. Licking his chapped lips, he glares flatly. “I’m beat to shit,” Wild tells them honestly, enunciating clearly despite the strain it takes on his throat. That said, he limps back toward camp.

It takes a moment for the others to follow this time. There’s awkward silence for about a minute before Scarf admits, “I just don’t understand how that’s relevant to anything.”

Wild makes sure his next sigh is even louder.

By the time they make it back to camp, the night has settled into a warm and dewy semblance of peace. Legend and Sky jump up when they notice Wild, hands on weapons, before the others wave them down with reassurances. Without waiting to be told what to do, Wild sits next to Twilight and refuses to look up again. The ground where the chainmail used to lay is blackened and bare.

As the others talk, Wild dozes without meaning to, finding consciousness to be fickle in the face of so much exhaustion. Twice, he awakens with a gasp, fear and pain startling him into brief wakefulness. The third time, he opens his eyes to find that someone has draped a blanket over him. The gesture is… surprising.

Legend and One Eye stand watch while the others sleep, staying close. Overhead, the stars shine unfettered by any lingering clouds. Wild’s pleased to find that his wounds already hurt a little less than before. Nevertheless, pus has begun seeping from his shoulder, and the smell makes his nose wrinkle. Curling into the blanket, he makes a mental note to track down some hearty radishes or truffles come morning, even if the group makes a fuss. They clearly have no idea how to survive out here, after all. 

He closes his eyes, intent on more sleep, when he feels a gentle pressure on his mind. _Princess Light?_

 _Zelda,_ the voice softly corrects. _I’m… so sorry._

_For what?_

_It is because of my weakness that events have transpired the way they have. All the destruction, all the pain—_ She laughs, and the sound is pretty and melodious and so very, very sad. _I couldn’t awaken my powers in time to stop any of it, and now the Goddess Hylia has been forced to summon heroes from other times._

Wild feels unbalanced by the strange admissions. _Wait—slow down. What are you talking about? If—I mean, you_ are _real, right? And you’re saying these warriors are heroes?_

 _I’m sorry,_ she says again, voice fading away. _It’s not your fault you have suffered._ Her presence abruptly withdraws to the back of his mind, muted and unapproachable.

 _Wait!_ he pleads, but she remains distant. _Zelda? Please, I'm so lost._ Once more, all is quiet. Wild never thought he'd resent it so much. 

He opens his eyes as though he can find her, a soft light at the edge of camp, but instead he is greeted with Twilight’s bleary stare. A sly glance around reveals that the others haven't noticed that their companion is awake. Swallowing thickly, stomach queasy with worry, Wild struggles with knowing what to say or do _—_ overwhelmed by the need to justify himself, to ask for forgiveness, to look at this man without baring his own throat, to rage and spit and flee from all that has been demanded of him and his single, daunting mistake.

And Twilight, in a whisper that hardly carries, says simply, “Nice shot.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to hear what you think! Also lol yes I realize Kohga is alive technically a hundred years from now, that'll be worked into the plot. :)


End file.
